


I Am the Embers of Your Fire, You Are the Breaking of My Dawn

by Itar94



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood, Canonical Character Death, Character Development, Destiny, Developing Relationship, Druids, F/M, First Kiss, Gender Issues, Internalized Misogyny, Intersex Character, M/M, Magic, Maybe happy ending?, Minor Character Death, More tags to be added in the future, Original Character(s), Other, Other relationships mentioned/implied, Periods, Prophecy, Season/Series 01, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, Violence, emrys - Freeform, follows canon closely at first before diverging, may be triggering: internalized transphobia and homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 16:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 104,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itar94/pseuds/Itar94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When he finds out, his mother tells him that first rule he was taught as a child, when he learned how to speak, the words etched underneath his skin: <i>You must not let anyone know.</i>"<br/>Merlin has more than one secret to keep, not just that he's magic ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Old Note (2012)**  
>  _Answer to a prompt at KMM - "A/M, one of them is a hermaphrodite."_  
>  Please note that this fic has content that might upset some readers, since it deals with a main character being a hermaphrodite. Please pay heed to chapter warnings. The rating might go up in time, depending on how graphic the chapters get. Adult content will probably at some point occur.  
> This fic deals with a character being a hermaphrodite but while I researched the topic some, I realized how difficult it would be to write; please don't take any statements regarding the subjects as pure, true fact. (Then again this is fiction and fantasy; and magic makes everything possible.) I tried my best to write this as realistic and believable as possible.  
> I took my chances going for a slow build of the A/M relationship, so you might see not a lot of things happening to start with, but please hang on! I'm planning on rewriting the whole first season and, if I find the time, more, maybe a series of fics. We'll see. This fic deals not only with Merlin's gender, but also with dollopheads and dragons and destiny, and other Merlinish issues.  
> This hasn't been beta-read yet; I apologize beforehand for all the errors you may find.  
> Based on a KMM prompt.  
> For a moment, I thought of using the world of omegas, alphas and betas instead of this. But for that idea to work, then I had to make all characters either omega, alpha or beta and it a steady part of society. And that would sort of ruin the whole point of Merlin having to keep it secret…so I opted for the original prompt in the end.  
> This is a fictional story so please don't take any of my statements within this piece as solid fact. I've looked the subject of hermaphrodites up a bit and realized that it's such a difficult thing to write, and that the characteristics I've applied to Merlin in this case won't be true to what biology says - apparently though there are cases of 'true hermaphrodites' there's been no known case where both the male and female organs have functioned fully, like they should have in an only male/only female person. (But here they will.) I'm not a biologist and had some difficulty understanding some of those articles I read on this subject, so all errors in this fic belong to me. I'd gladly accept any helpful facts if you've got them…but remember it's fiction. You could say I'm tackling this from a more mythical point of view; think of the original legend of Hermaphroditus (and that magic makes anything possible). I really, really hope the themes in this fic won't upset anyone, but if anything here thus far has made you uncomfortable, please refrain from reading any further!  
> The fic focuses on other things as well though, like destiny and dragons and dollopheads and other Merlinish issues. Merlin still has magic and the setting is canon Camelot. This will be Merlin/Arthur in time (and maybe other pairings, both two- and one-sided, but I am not that big a fan of Arthur/Gwen so we'll see how that front develops) - but you have to be patient. It may include more angst that first intended though.  
>  **New Note (2015)**  
>  _later edit: Merlin identifies as/uses he/him pronouns, and prefers it so._

Merlin has always known that he's different.

His mother had always known as well, even if she doesn't speak of it. It's the fear, Merlin tells himself, the fear of being discovered - the fear of being seen or heard and tossed out of the village - but when his mother glances at him sometimes he wishes terribly much that it wasn't so. That he was normal and not like this.

It's terrifying, but at the same time natural and  _easy_  as breathing, the power humming there beneath his skin, thrumming through his veins. At first he couldn't name it and as an infant he didn't care for labels anyway. It didn't  _matter why -_ it was wonderful and never uncomfortable or wrong. It just _was_. Labels were not necessary. All he knew was that this energy, alive and full of so much emotion, this …  _thing_  … was rooted in his core and he couldn't live without it.

No one else had it. He'd asked his mother once, why she never used it, the web of energy around them, when it made things so much simpler - she'd just shook her head. The words were always the same:  _It's a secret, Merlin_  and _You must never let anyone know._

_You must never let anyone know._

He can remember each time he's used it,  _magic magic magic_  echoing in his head, flowing though his veins, in time with his heartbeat - although the first times are fuzzy and vague; the memories of a being small child weakening as more recent, more important things fill the mind.

That time when he was four, eager to show what he could do, test the boundaries of his powers: her shocked, upset, saddened expression that sunny day in June when Hunith said she needed to go to the well, despite her tired feet and aching back. Merlin only wanted to help. He only ever wanted to help but his mother had been first shocked, trembling to the core, then angry, staring at the suddenly water-filled pail in her son's hands.  _Disbelieving_. And Merlin didn't understand – he'd only wanted to help her get water.  _He'd only wanted to help._

She'd yelled and cried and, finally, embraced him. A confusing embrace, with the teary smiles and his mother's berating, "Never do something like that again!" - so much worry, so much grief. Her eyes were haunted, he could clearly remember: the dripping shades of her voice fixing him on the spot. "I'm sorry mother," he'd apologized, again and again and again; "I'm sorry."

Over the next passing weeks, there grew an unspoken rule sharper than any blade, a boundary he fingered at but never fully crossed:  _Never do something like that again._

But the power swirling in his blood cannot be ignored. It doesn't know any rules or measures, only the will of doing something for the better and _setting fre_ e. From time to time he sneaks out to a glade in the wood a few miles from the village and, with eyes wide with childish innocence and amazement, explores what his gift can do. Lightning and rain and sunshine spring from his fingertips and flowers and grass sprout from the ground at his will and he's so deliriously happy every time. He can letting a bird fly down to land in his open palm, stroke its little head, and the other animals do not seem that afraid of him even if sudden noise can startle them and make them run away.

Sometimes, his friend Will follows with him too and then Merlin doesn't use his magic. His mother would be so angry. It doesn't matter though, Will is happy with him and he's happy with Will. They roll around on the mossy ground laughing or play hide and seek. And when he's alone he runs through a green meadow barefoot, arms spread out wondering if he one day could take a leap and fly, fly away someplace better, look down on the village and forest; wondering how it'd look from up there - and other tiny moments like that when he tastes freedom.

Sometimes, he wonders what's beyond the woods, but he's heard stories of wolves and giant bears and doesn't dare go further than the friendly open glade.

* * *

He doesn't realize why his mother always worries until two years later, under a heavily clouded sky.

A six year old Merlin is playing with Will just outside his mother's cottage – the other boy, one and a half years older, is one of the few who actually likes being with Merlin, even if he's mean sometimes, calling him names and pushing him into the mud and pulling at his ears. But he's kind as well and he'd hit the boy who'd bullied Merlin for his large comical ears (which was how they met) square on the jaw. He's somehow appointed himself Merlin's protective brother, thus he's the only one allowed to pick on Merlin.

The day is warm, just at the end of a good harvest and then the riders come into the village, hoof beats dull thuds on the muddy path. Will picks up the ball the boys are passing between them, poking Merlin's shoulder and pointing; "Look, there're horses over there. With big men on them."

Merlin glances over where his friend is pointing. Yes, they are big men and their faces look scary, a grave expression on each one like they hadn't smiled in years. Chainmail and armour and spears are glinting in the sunlight: Merlin had never seen anyone wear metal on their bodies before, and it's kind of fascinating, albeit scary too and when the men looks around, Merlin twitches, wanting to hide somewhere. He doesn't want to be trapped by their gazes. One of the men barks at the others and dismounts, the large horse snorting impatiently and Merlin stares transfixed, like rooted to the ground, a sudden realization slamming into his belly. This, whatever it is, he's witnessing something that he doesn't  _want_   _to see_ , but he cannot understand why or what it is.

Will, older and maybe knowing things than Merlin doesn't, tugs at his sleeve. "C'mon, let's go someplace else."

But Merlin doesn't move. "What's going on?" he whispers in a small voice, wanting to shut his eyes and cover his ears, but too petrified to do so when the armed men comes back dragging an old woman with them. Merlin recognized her. Annie. Annie is nice, she'd helped him up two days ago and patched up his scraped knees and shared bread with him; why are the men taking her away? Why are they glaring at her, their eyes so dark and sinister and their grip so tight? – The woman is wailing, scared – Merlin feels a tremor in his bones and steps forward slightly -  _why_   _are they taking her away?_

Usually, Will is always brave and knew everything but when Merlin whispers there questions frantically, suddenly clinging to his friend, Will has no answers, at least he can't form words the other boy would understand. "Merlin. Let's…let's go." He doesn't say it, but the scene is frightening for him too and unlike Merlin, he's heard about stuff like this: grown up stuff, about kings and laws and magic, about fires and secrecy and staying behind locked doors.

"C'mon," he says again, something hidden in the layers of his voice, not quite concealing the fact that he  _knows._  "Let's go. We shouldn't …"

"What's going to happen to her?" Merlin asks, wide-eyed, staring at the men and the woman they're pinning down, and gasping as one of the men hits her sharply and there's a cry of pain. The men yell. Angry, taunting words. " _Witch_!" they cry, a word Merlin's heard whispered by the fire but never spoken aloud before, the meaning is somewhat foreign.

Merlin is held back by immovable hands on his wrist, keeping from rushing up to the scene, to  _do_   _something_. "Will? What's going on? Why're they taking her away?"

There is no reply. Hunith appears that moment, pulling him into a hug and for some inexplicable reason, Merlin had to swallow a sob, a feeling hitting his gut and suddenly, he just  _knows_  he won't see Annie come back to Ealdor. That she'll never pat his head after a clumsy tumble again, or offer him and the other village children stories about dragons and princes during the late Samhain festival evenings right before they were ushered to bed, or any of those other little moments. She'll never – never. Because of those men. Why are they taking her away?

"Merlin," his mother's soft voice makes its way through the confusion of his heart.

Merlin asks again, "Why are they taking her away?"

"It matters not now, my child," Hunith murmurs, something bitter on her tongue. Merlin's eyes flickers over to her: posing so many doubts. "Come now, Merlin."

And she leads him home, away from the woman's frightened screaming dying in the distance, fading into nothingness and he keeps glancing over his shoulder for a last glimpse.

Years later, Merlin clearly remembers looking back, hands clenched into small fists, the ground darkened and the sky smelling of burned flesh.

He'll never forget.

_Never forget._

* * *

There are other things, too, setting him apart.

He started noticing early, it was little things; how he felt, something twisting in his gut sometimes at Will's sharper taunts or his mother's glances; his body, there was something  _off_  with it. Something about it wasn't quite … wasn't quite like the other boys'. He knew all along somehow that he was  _different_  – but he couldn't put his finger on it, couldn't place it correctly. For a long time he didn't delve too much into such thoughts, if he could help them. He just wanted to stay safe and happy and at peace, without asking questions that might disrupt that.

He's rather certain his mother knows, but he doesn't ask fearing the answer and she doesn't speak of it.

It's not until later, when he's twelve years old, that he finds out  _what_  it is.

It's in the middle of July when the day is humid and warm, trembling beneath the weight of summer. The sun is halfway down the sky and crickets are singing in the tall thick grass. It happens with Will, again, but it's different in the sense that Will isn't aware - not like the other grown up stuff, with old Annie. He has no idea. Which might be just as well. Merlin doesn't know if he can tell him, _how_  to tell him, if he ever can.

They are down by the stream just outside the village and it takes a lot of coaxing from Will to get him into the water. He doesn't really want to bathe, not today, with anyone watching him.

"C'mon! You're no fun," Will says impatiently stomping a foot, because splashing around by himself isn't that fun. "You're not scared, are you?" He grins, showing off a newly missing tooth:  _"Ha!_ Merlin's scared of the water, Merlin's scared of the water!"

"No, I'm not," Merlin protests, because he isn't. It's just, with Will there, when he's not alone, it's different somehow; he's starting to grow out of the stage of being able to take off his shirt when it's warm outside and run around laughing. He's aware of eyes on him in a way he's not been before. But he takes off his shoes and his clothes and wades into the chilly water, as quickly as possible – Will continues to laugh and taunt in a sing-song voice to his heart's content.

The boy doesn't quiet until Merlin's beside him, waist-deep in the water and Merlin sinks down trying to cover himself, his whole body with threads of water. When seeing his friend's unwillingness to swim and splash around, Will scowls, displeased – "You really are  _no_  fun," he says, pouting. "What's up with you?"

"I don't know," Merlin mumbles clenching his stomach and he feels suddenly  _ill_ , a whooshing through his body, he just wants to crawl up the shore again and hide someplace soft and dark, but his stomach aches and he feels warm, almost feverish but not quite; it's weird, he can't explain it. He just. He has to get  _away_. "I, I don't feel so good."

Will frowns at him. "Eh, you sick?"

"'Dunno."

His stomach  _hurts_. It's a new kind of pain he's never had before, throbbing and persistant and he feels warm, not quite feverish but almost, and for a moment his heart speeds up, his breathing short -  _Why does it hurt?_

"I – I don't," Merlin hesitates, glancing down, feeling vulnerable and frail. He got a sudden urge to just turn and run and fling himself in his mother's arms, which was odd, he's fought every urge like that since he was nine and Will called him a weakling, but now he can't fight it. He starts moving out of the water barely feeling his own feet carrying him away.

" _Muurlin_ ," Will grumbles, splashing water after his friend.

Merlin manages to slip his clothes on and then becomes distinctively aware of  _something_ , warm and red between his thighs and he panics, stumbling into a run, completely ignoring Will's taunts.

* * *

"Child," Hunith breathes.

"What is it, mother? What's wrong with me?" Merlin asks hiccoughing again, trying to hide a sniffle behind his sleeve but it doesn't quite work. He's spent the last hour babbling and clinging to his mother's arms. "Mother?"

Hunith has some knowledge in healing, the closest to a physician the village has, but Merlin knows the expression on her face. It's like when she was treating that old man who'd lost his left eye or that woman with the fever last week, remembering with a chill the freshly dug grave, two of many she's not had enough skill to heal and that kind of expression is frightening for Merlin to see.  _It's bad_ , is all he can think,  _it's really bad._

"Mother? Mother, I'm  _scared_."

Abruptly the woman stands, leaving Merlin sitting on the bench confused, hands clenched around his stomach.

"Am I gonna … " He suddenly thinks of the old woman, of the Witch, of Annie and of blood on the ground, his chest clenching around his small heart and lungs, almost suffocating him; hot tears well up in his eyes. "Am I gonna die, mother?"

"No … no, sweetheart. You're not going to."

She takes his hand and looks him in the eye, and in words Merlin doesn't quite understand, explains that he's different from other boys, not like them. That his body isn't like theirs.

He knows that, he says _,_ "I've always known that, always  _felt_  it."

Hunith shakes her head, "It's more than that."

There's a murmur of _This must be kept a secret (people would suspect magic)._

She'll help him, she promises, always be a support, but it must be kept a secret between just the two of them, and she talks about birds and bees as well - Merlin can't quite understand the details. A small part of him is quietly thrilled at this new discovery of uniqueness, but a larger part of him just wants it to go away forever so he can be  _normal_ , like Will and Jonathan and all of the other boys in the village.

And she tells him that first rule he was taught when as a child when he learned how to speak, words etched underneath his skin:

 _You must not let anyone know_.

* * *

Seventeen years old, Merlin has adapted to his situation better; though he's still uncomfortable about it. Hunith is the only one who knows. He didn't tell Will. Can't tell him. Doesn't dare to.

When meeting the boy two days after the incident at the stream, he'd mumbled some white lie about tummy aches and Will had scoffed and called him a girl – and then things fell back to usual, the way they'd used to be.

Only now, taunts like that hurt, stinging in his chest and he feels  _ashamed_ , like someone's covered him with permanent ink markings deep in the flesh to set him apart forever – it feels like everybody stares even though they aren't. He shouldn't be like this. It's not … it's not  _natural_. He knows, because even if his mother doesn't talk loudly about it, he sees it in her glances and hears it in her hesitation. Sees in her worn hands cradling his own whenever he asks about it, wanting to know:  _Why am I like this?_

He knows he'll never be quite like the other village boys. Never normal, for always half a step outside the door and furthest from the hearth. Such thoughts are frightening and hurtful and cruel when you're a lone boy trying to grow up and find your place in the world. Though his mother never fully understands how he feels, she's supportive.

When the cycle comes and he wakes up pained in the mornings wanting to crawl up into a tight ball and never go outside again, she holds his hand comfortingly and makes some hot tea and helps concealing the blood. When he goes through a period of breaking down in tears one week in the middle of autumn, crisp leaves rustling underneath his feet, she lets him cry on her shoulder, embracing him and promising, promising  _It'll be all right, it'll be all right._

It's never completely  _all right,_  but – it's bearable.

After that incident in the river, his magic has been growing. Perhaps not on its own, but out of control: slowly spinning out of his hands. He can't always be aware of what it does. Its hum is so near and comfortable; it's what he relies on, what makes him feel  _safe._

(After going to bed crying, he often walks out of the house next morning to find the soil soft with fresh rain.)

* * *

The winter day when Merlin lets Will get to know about his magic, finally admitting it because he no longer wants to lie, the world around him crumbles, the thin shells he's built for years falling apart between them.

Will is shocked –  _not_   _scared_  – and then fascinated –  _not cruel_  – and calls him an utter idiot for hiding something like this and finally, Will  _accepts_ , continuing to treat him like always and calling him names because of his long, pale branch-like limbs and stubbornly defending him from bullies. And in moments of privacy Will asks him to do little magic, swirls of gold and red and green in his palm. Merlin conjures up light and butterflies out of nothing, and he is happy.

Once during one of the evenings they're in their own secret little hideout, the glade with the old oak, Will even says, "It's beautiful, Merlin," and Merlin's chest warms pleasantly, something like pride in his fingertips, and he doesn't mind Will asking questions about the magic after that.  _It's beautiful, Merlin_ creeps into his half-dreams and soothes him during cold nights he cannot find any rest - _It's beautiful, Merlin -_ and he wonders if Will would react just as well if he was told Merlin's other secret.

(He has these silly little dreams of Will holding him just as closely as his magic, smiling and murmuring, " _You're_ _beautiful, Merlin."_ But it's just a dream and nothing more, and it's gone by the morning.)

Hunith doesn't take it well, when finding he's spilled his first major secret. She fears for him, so badly, he can practically see it like a shadowed sheet wrapped around her. Five weeks after the revelation, his mother orders him to pack. Merlin does so with tears in his eyes.

"You want me to just leave everything behind?" he asks, despaired, by the kitchen table, fisting one of the shirts he's folding, tightly, knuckles white. Ealdor is his  _home,_ it's all he's ever known. Out there – there's nothing he knows, nothing that's safe and homely and no one whom he can go to and tell of his worries, his pains, share his dreams and secrets with. There'll be no one and he might wander lonely for weeks, months, no place to go.

"Gaius will welcome you," Hunith says certain and steady. "You'll find another home there."

"I  _don't want_  to find another home," Merlin says hotly.

"I know, my child. But your place isn't here. You have to explore the world. I am certain that you will find a place where you will be welcomed and cherished for what you truly are."

The air outside the door is cold with autumn wind and riding upon it, as he turns around for a final time, Merlin hears the echo of his mother's voice:  _You'll find your destiny._


	2. Part 1: The City of Camelot [The Dragon's Call, part one]

**Part 1:**

# The City of Camelot

**_[The Dragon's Call, part one]_ **

* * *

Camelot is so much grander than he's imagined.

As he enters the city, he finds there are side-streets and nooks and cans everywhere he turns. And so many people! Smells, sounds, sights assault him from all sides; flags flutter in the wind on the battlements; a troupe of jugglers passing through the city are performing in front of a tavern. Singing and chatter and children's laughter reaches Merlin's ears though he can't pinpoint exactly from where.

The only time he's been outside Ealdor was in spring when he was eight, when his mother took him to the market of Ashire, one of the larger villages in the kingdom of Estecia; but this is much greater and it's not even a special market day, simply a day among so many others, like it was yesterday and will be tomorrow. Salesmen shout to get costumers' attention; he glimpses a woman carefully examining the bright fresh fruits on a stand while discussing the price with the merchant. A troupe of colourful jugglers has gathered an excited cloud of children around them. A man Merlin passes tries to sell him sweets from a finely woven basket, almost pushing the items into his hands.

Merlin reluctantly but politely declines; he has only a handful of coins and he needs to save them to get some food and a roof over his head, in case Gaius won't take him in. Though, it's very tempting - he's never seen pastries of that kind before and they look really nice and sugary, if he could just have one bite he'd be happy - but he cannot waste anything away. First of all he needs a place to stay.

"Right. A place to stay," he murmurs to himself. Gaius is his mother's older brother and supposedly Camelot's court physician. But what if he's not here for some reason? What if he doesn't Hunith's son? What if he's not physician anymore or cannot take him in? What if…?

But he's gotten this far. He cannot turn back now. He has nowhere else to go.

The sound of cornets suddenly rings through the air and the crowd surges forward, into the courtyard and Merlin follows, curious of what this might mean. An announcement maybe? Things like this didn't happen in Ealdor, the only kind of gatherings he can remember is when a travelling preacher reached the village two or three years ago and stood at the village center for three days in a row, loudly speaking of the importance of prayers and belief, and the darkness of sin.

But it's not a preacher; there are no brown robes.

The black-clad man is hooded and masked and gloved, a silent solemn statue by the corner of the wooden platform. An axe leans almost casually against his thigh. The crowd whisper, mutter quietly, a stream of voices as two armed guards escort a man (normal-looking, clothes worn; a commoner) up toward the platform. The man's hands are bound behind his back and he looks very lonely, no one rushes out to help him and Merlin can pick up scattered words like unlawful and sorcerer and death, and he shudders as if someone's opened his veins and poured ice into them. Magic. This man has magic. And now. Now he'll… Merlin swallows and tries to look some other way.

His mother must've known, yet – yet she's sent him here…!

Then the King steps out onto the balcony above. He is tall and regal in the brown cloak swung around his shoulders, and there's a flash of gold upon his head and Merlin stares at him, unable to move. He could, he could back away now and out of the courtyard and wait until this is over and then go back and search for Gaius, but he doesn't – something holds him back.

"This man, Thomas James Collins, has been convicted of using enchantments and magic. And for this crime there is but one sentence I can pass," the King says, a cold boom echoing across the yard, and nods toward the executioner.

The axe is raised and the crowd holds a collective breath. When the axe falls down, sharp and condemning, Merlin doesn't want to see, doesn't want to see, but finds himself frozen and unable to look away. The wet noise of flesh and bone and blood being torn cuts unmistakably through the air and Merlin swallows trying not to be sick. It takes two strokes, then, the masked man steps back from the platform and the body is taken away by a servant.

"When I came to this land, the kingdom was mired in chaos," the King continues, calm, collected, as if he hadn't just ordered to have a man's head severed from his shoulders. "But with the people's help, magic was driven from the realm and we found peace, and further conflict was avoided. So I declare a festival, to celebrate twenty years since the Great Dragon was captured and Camelot freed from the evil of sorcery."

Merlin bites his cheek to keep from protesting aloud, thinking of the raids on the boarders and how villages had been refused help from Camelot, Ealdor included; it's in Cenred's Kingdom after all but the King couldn't care less for what happened to the tiny village, so they have turned to Camelot, several times but to no avail - and the witch-hunts and the beheadings, the stench of burning flesh – all of this, it has always happened for as long as Merlin can recall. The elders in the village have spoken of how it was before the ban. Before people were sent on the run and fled across Camelot's borders and were hunted mercilessly, and how those helping them were found just as guilty. Before the ban, there was one thing less to fear, for everyone. How can the King not see that?

How can he proclaim such things when they're not true?

But then a wail cuts through the air and the King's speech: "My son! You took my son!"

The King stiffen on the wall and the guards by the platform tighten their grip on their weapons, as an old woman in a torn cloak breaks through the crowd to stand in front of the balcony. She looks so weary and full of grief and so angry. The anger might have been coated on the skin, seeping through her eyes. And there's something else – Merlin can't describe it properly, but it feels like there's this thin web around her, a power, silent and humming but ever-present; it's somewhat familiar.

And then he realizes: magic. It can be nothing else.

He glances around, startled. Can anyone else see, can they notice? Can they feel the power around the woman, can they reach out and touch it?

But there are no signs of it. The are no screams of "Witch!" – not yet. And if there's this web around the woman, her magic showing … is there one around him as well? Is there one around all magic users?

Merlin holds his breath.

"There is only one evil in this land, and it is not magic!" the woman shouts. "It is you! With your hatred and your ignorance! You killed my son! But I promise you, before these celebrations are over, you will share my tears. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth - a son for a son!"

"Seize her!" the King yells but the woman reacts first, pulling out a pendant from around her neck and speaking words Merlin has never heard before. A wind pulls out from nowhere, wrapping around her like dust and smoke, and then she vanishes.

It takes a moment for the audience to come back to itself, and people begin to scatter. Guards rush out in search for the woman, but there's no trace of her to be found – Merlin can't sense her magic nearby anymore, she's simply gone and he wonders where to. Has she left Camelot altogether? How did she do that? He's never seen magic like that.

The King surveys the scene with dark eyes. Merlin forces his feet to move. He can't linger here.

Heart still thundering in his chest, with fear, with pity for that poor old woman, with ire - the image of the head rolling across the stone scorched onto his eyelids for a long time to come - Merlin staggers across the castle yard. He feels almost out of his skin and has a strong urge to turn and flee and run, run away from this horrible place and its axes. But he made a promise, to his mother, a promise and he can't dishonor it. She'd be so disappointed – and angry, most probably. And he doesn't want her to worry more than she already does.

"Um, excuse me," he stops to ask one of the guards standing by the one of the gateways. The man's chainmail and spear glints in the sun, dangerous and sharp, but everyone else has hurried away and the man should probably be able to help him. "Where can I find the court physician - Gaius?"

The guard grunts, looking the boy up and down, frowning at the ragged clothing. "You don't look sick or injured to me. A simple peasant like you won't be admitted."

"But I-"

"He is a busy man who tends to the court; he will not have time for your petitions. Go back to your cottage or field and mind your own business."

"Hey, Gerard, let the lad pass. I don't think he's up to mischief," suddenly a kind voice cuts in, another guard appearing. He looks at Merlin, still kindly, but there's a hint of steel in his eyes, the eyes of a warrior (it's a bit like the hardening of Will's eyes and fists Merlin has seen sometimes, that afternoon when he said he had to leave Ealdor, I don't know when I'll be back).

"Are you, boy?" the man asks, his face friendly albeit there's a sharp warning edge to his voice.

"No. No, my mother sent me," he answers truthfully, shaking his head, trying to keep his voice light and pulse steady. "Gaius is my uncle," he adds, perhaps then there'll be less dangerous questions or they'll see reason to let him pass, since he's Gaius' family. But what if they can see right through him and his fears and his secrets? What if he isn't allowed? Then what will he do, where will he go?

The man's eyebrows lift in surprise. "I never knew he had any family! Well, we all have our secrets." The words make Merlin cringe inwardly. They hit far too close to home. "What's your name, lad?"

"Merlin. My name is Merlin."

If they realized…If Gaius realized…Gaius lives here, that means, most probably, he's not a supporter of magic. How could he be? Oh, what was his mother thinking? Why has she put all her hopes in sending him here? Why couldn't he have stayed home, in Ealdor – wasn't it safer there?

Unexpectedly his face heats and he blinks rapidly. He can't think like that! His mother must've known about the ban. What was that saying again? Keep your friends close but your enemies closer.Perhaps that's the reason. Perhaps…

"Well then, Merlin, the physician's quarters is situated in the eastern wing of the castle. I could show the way if you wish."

"That would be very kind, thank you. Of course, unless you have other duties?" Merlin says, flashing a smile, thankful for the consideration. He's already feeling lost, like an ant running about trying to avoid being trampled. He's a bit overwhelmed with everything. Will he ever get used to it or always feel so small, running about in a maze?

The man nods and turns to his partner. "Gerard, could you take over here?"

The guard grumbles something under his breath about peasants and the king's service, but raises his spear again so it won't block their way, and the other guard leads Merlin into the castle grounds. It looks even bigger from here, the white stone shining in the sun, supported by tall pillars, and there are lots of people milling about: helmeted guards, courtiers in finely woven clothes, men and women wearing red tunics or dresses much of the same style - perhaps they're servants. They pass by a group of men in long red cloaks and glinting chainmail, to whom the guard bows his neck.

"Knights of Camelot; they are noblemen in the King's service," he explains at Merlin's confused look.

"Oh," the boy says. His only memories of knights are from when large, rough-handed men serving Cenred trampled through Ealdor, claiming whatever they wanted as they went. For a moment, he recalls the old woman's terrified screams and the smell of burnt flesh, and a shiver rattles his spine. He doesn't want to think about it, but the memory is permanent like a scar.

They reach the eastern part of the castle: they're mostly ignored. Through a corridor, under an arched entrance, up some winding stairs of a tower. "It's just up there," the guards says and points at a door, the wood dark and heavy, the handle worn. "I must return to my post now."

Merlin gives the man a grateful smile. Maybe Camelot isn't that bad. Maybe. "Thank you for helping me."

"It was no trouble, lad." The guard starts descending the stairs again, and Merlin turns to knock at the door.

* * *

He doesn't mean to startle the old man, making him fall, the wood to break. He certainly doesn't mean to use magic.

Gaius is raging: a storm in the old clever eyes, and while his body is old and slow, his mind is quick and sharp and probably dangerous. "What did you just do?!" he cries, shocked and angry and something else Merlin cannot determine, but it can't be good.

"I – that, that wasn't me, that had nothing to do with me," Merlin stutters, palms facing outward. His words fall on deaf ears however; Gaius sees through his lies like through glass.

"I know what I saw. What I wish to know is where you learned to do it! Who taught you?"

Merlin wonders what the best option is. Running now as fast as he can, before the screaming starts and guards rush in to grab him with swords in their hands - or staying, hoping, hoping the man won't turn him in, won't let him be beheaded or burned. Oh god. What if Gaius does? And his mother would find out that her son had been outed as a sorcerer and executed upon his very arrival at Camelot. Panic makes his breath painful and quick, like someone is standing on his ribcage, suffocating him slowly.

"I-I never learned it, or was taught!" he blurts out, staring at Gaius, feeling utterly wrenched and hopeless and earnest. "It just happens. It's just … I can't help it!"

He is sent a suspicious look. "That's impossible," Gaius says.

Impossible. Unnatural.

The silence after those words is heavy and laden with tension and Merlin wonders if his magic is strong enough to take him from here to someplace far away, someplace safe, back to Ealdor, in a heartbeat. He'd really, really like to just disappear. However the physician beats him to it.

"Who are you anyway?"

He answers hesitantly, the cut deep in his chest aching with the echo of the man's words (impossible impossible impossible). "I'm Merlin."

The man's eyes widen. "Hunith's son?"

"Yes!"

The man catches the still somewhat terrified look on the boy's face and there's the hint of a smile on the edge of the physician's mouth. "That explains a lot of things, Merlin. Heavens, I haven't seen you since you were a child, barely tall enough to reach my knees. Though I do not expect you to remember my visit. My, how you've grown!" And he adds in a quieter voice: "Your mother has told me of your … gift. But for it to have become this strong, and so fast…"

An unreadable expression shadows the old face.

Relief spreads through Merlin like water and he nearly sinks to the ground, unable to believe his luck. Or rather, his strange ability to survive even when everything goes utterly wrong. Gaius remembers and knows of his gift, of his magic! But he doesn't seem unkind and doesn't seem to want to turn him in for sorcery. No. The man assures him as much. "I have kept your ability a secret for most of your life, Merlin. I can do a bit longer. I promise you this."

"My mother asked me to give you this." He scrambles for the letter – neither he nor Hunith can read or write very well, barely enough to write a simple note, a plead. The old man scans the words, nodding but frowning as his eyes flicker from left to right, and his gaze turns more serious as he looks up again. Merlin wonders what he's thinking, and wishes he read the letter through before giving it to the old man: then at least he'd know what his mother was telling Gaius.

Briefly he wonders how to breach the subject of his other difference, but reconsiders after a moment. Just because Gaius is his uncle it doesn't mean he can trust him with all of his secrets. He'd already risked so much by outing his magic – that means putting Gaius at risk as well. Consorting with sorcerers is a dangerous business. And most people would surely think of his difference as some kind of magic.

"I wasn't expecting company, but I do not mind. We'll have to find some paid work for you, though."

"Thank you, Gaius." This is better than he could have expected. Gaius doesn't have any obligations to let him stay. "Thank you."

Gaius smiles; it's worn and wrinkled at the edges, but it's an earnest and kind smile. "It is I who should thank you - for saving my life," he says, ignoring Merlin's mutterings of 'no, really, it was nothing'.

"Put your pack in there," he continues and points at an adjourning chamber, up a small set of stairs. "Have you had dinner?" Merlin shakes his head, his stomach timely growling for attention. "No? You're lucky I was just planning to have a meal then. I hope you like chicken."

* * *

The physician's chamber is situated in the round corner of a tower, and from his room Merlin has an amazing view over Camelot. From here the city looks larger than before, small houses packed tightly together between the thin roads and stone walls, and in the warm night there are yellow lights glowing in nearly every window. It just stretches on and on and on, and from afar he can still hear the echoing sounds of voices.s

Despite being so far from Ealdor, maybe staying here won't be so bad, he muses as he leans over the windowsill and twisting his head to see it all, though there are large parts of Camelot he can'tsee from here. Tomorrow he'll explore. His new home.

But later, when curled up on the cot (silently marveling at the fact he's been given a proper bed with mattress and everything) it's difficult to fall asleep. The distant sounds and smells are different here than they would be at Ealdor, in their little hut there with its thin walls, and made uneasy by this he leaves a candle burning by the bedside for comfort.

He's hit in the gut with a painful feeling of longing. It's intense, like hunger in a harsh winter night after a year of bad harvest. He's never been this far from Ealdor ever in his life. And now he's lying here, unsure of when he'll be back in his village, back with his mother and Will: if it'll be weeks or months or years, if ever.

* * *

Why is it he drops a brick every time he's meant to be careful?

Perhaps it's a natural order.

He's just walking through the city toward the water pump to fetch some water for Gaius – glad it's not a river he has to fetch water from; that would take ages – early the next day, when he passes them by. A group of young men partly dressed in armour or chainmail. One has a red cloak over his shoulders. Merlin can recognize a few faces from the knights the day before, and his steps quicken.

That is, until he hears the taunting voice between the stone walls - not directed at him, but at another young man nearly his age, a servant surrounded by the other men in armour and armed with swords (knights?), unable to get away.

One of them orders the servant to lift the heavy-looking target across the small field, haughtily smirking at him when he nearly crumbles under the weight. "But the sun's not that bright," the servant protests meekly, trying to find a reason not to obey.

"A bit like you then," the man says and laughter rings out across the yard. Merlin scowls darkly. He doesn't like where this is going one bit – be the men knights or not.

The servant lifts the wooden thing anyway with a sigh and starts walking across the sand. "Here?" he asks.

"A bit further."

The servant moves again, starting to settle the target down but a shout stops him and the men howls with laughter.

"Keep going!" one of them shouts; "We need some moving target practice."

And the man has the nerve to draw a knife and throw it at the target the youth is carrying around, while the servant desperately is trying to hide himself behind it. Merlin feels his blood grow warmer with anger, the hum of magic thrumming in his veins. How stupid and mean can that man be! Throwing knives at innocent people and bullying them without a second thought! Had he no conscience? Eyes flaring, Merlin stops on his heels and turns around, biting his lip to keep his magic from bursting with fury right then and there.

That moment, the youth stumbles and falls, the target rolling away from him. He scrambles up, hastily trying to retrieve it but is startled to finds a booted foot steadily settled on the wooden board.

"That's quite enough, my friend."

The blonde man – who is rather handsome, Merlin's mind redundantly supplies; with a strong jaw-line and intense blue eyes and hair like summer straw – looks at him amusedly, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, do I know you?"

Merlin offers his hand. "I'm Merlin."

"So I don't know you."

The men gathered behind him chuckles and smirks, clearly expecting the blonde to pounce on the dark-haired youth, bring him to the ground. If they think that to be possible, they are seriously underestimating Merlin, but he's not surprised. "Yet you called me 'friend'."

"My mistake," Merlin says, withdrawing his hand, and adds, "I could never have a friend who's such an ass."

The blonde stares at him incredulously and then starts to laugh like he's just heard the world's most hilarious thing. "You really are one of a kind. Tell me, Merlin," he says (the tone an eerie echo of Will): "Do you know how to walk on your knees?"

"No."

"Would you like me to help you?"

The nerve of that prat! "No. I wouldn't try that if I were you."

The man apparently thinks his words are hilarious. "Why? What could you do to me?"

"You have no idea," Merlin says, struggling to keep himself in check. If he lets this go too far he'll react instinctively to his inner wish to grab the man by the heels and hold him upside down, but Will or his mother aren't here to help him out of his tight spot, and the man is probably a knight. Nobility. If he uses his magic on him he'll definitely lose his head.

The blonde, still smiling, spreads his arms. Like he's a target and Merlin is the armed archer.

"Oh really? Well, be my guest then. Come on!"

And Merlin can't stop himself. Before he knows it he's stepped forward, fist raised, in the flash of a second it nearly comes in contact with that smug grin -

A hand grabs his, steers the fist into air and twists him around, forcing him down. Quick hot breath against his neck, tickling the skin and he shivers; the grip is firm. Metal presses into his shoulder sharply: he winces, tries to push away.

"Who do you think you are - the king?" Merlin asks mockingly, ignoring the common sense that's yelling at him to not do something that stupid and certainly not call a man wielding a very real, very deadly sword an ass. But often when his blood soars with emotion or anger, Merlin cannot hinder himself: he's never been one to hide his emotions well.

And Merlin is fuming, infuriated with the man's behavior; how could anyone be so pratheaded? That boy, the servant, he didn't seem to have done anything do deserve having the man throw knives at him! But the man is still a true ass and does it, laughing, thinking he's so great! Merlin's breath comes in angry huffs, and his wrist is twisted painfully in the man's irritated grip, and he wishes he could use his magic without losing his head for it. The man clearly deserves it.

"No," the man says, echoing his mocking tone, "I'm his son - Arthur."

The world tumbles down with a crash.

What? Merlin thinks dazed at the revelation. He thought the man was a noble or knight or something but not the prince. Definitely not. And now for that stupid mistake he's probably going to lose his head anyway, because if the man – Arthur – is the prince then he might order for Merlin to be beheaded anyway, for trying to hit the prince of Camelot or for just generally acting like a complete idiot and they can't let the kingdom be full of those, can they.

Me and my big mouth, Merlin quietly berates himself. He's pushed away and then two guards grab his arms.

"Take him to the dungeons. A night of solitude will hopefully clear his mind," says the prince, and the guards lead him across the courtyard, the grip of his wrists rough and harsh, and Merlin cannot pull out of the grip.

At least he doesn't seem to want me beheaded … yet, Merlin thinks glumly.

* * *

The cell is cold and dank and dark.

This is not how he's planned to spend his second night in Camelot. Maybe coming here was a bad idea. He only irritates people anyway – they never listen to him, always pushes him around. And this is the seat of a king who hates magic with every fiber of his being and have sorcerers burned in the centre of the city. Merlin feels sick at the thought.

The night passes slowly and Merlin crawls up in a corner, wrapping his jacket around his knees in search for some warmth. At least the floor isn't bare stone. And he was given a piece of bread and some water two hours ago, so his stomach is nicely full. But he cannot find rest and it takes a long, long time to fall asleep. Eventually his eyes slide shut, his head leaning against the wall.

Merlin dreams. Dreams of fire and dragons and lakes, and there's a deep voice chanting his name -  **MERLIN. MERLIN.**  - like trying to wake him. Curious, Merlin tries to delve deeper into the dream, reaches out a hand, but the images fades out of his grip, voices echoing and there are other sounds as well, screams and the clashing of swords and hot roaring fires.

Dawn hits him square in the face, shaking him out of sleep.

The cell door opens the same moment, footsteps echoing sharply against the floor, and Merlin blinks trying to push away the remnants of dreams.

It's Gaius: the old man pacing back and forth angrily, yet worried. "It's been merely a day after you've arrived and you've already gotten yourself into trouble! Boy, you mustn't do anything like that again."

"But he's an ass," Merlin can't help muttering. "So what if he's a royal one!"

Briefly something like amusement crosses Gaius' face, but it quickly turns serious again. "You're lucky I managed to pull some strings to get your released. There is a small price to pay, however …"

* * *

Merlin really does not like cabbage. At all. It'll take hours to get those stains out of his tunic and neckerchief. His back and wrists aches terribly too. He supposes he deserves it, in a way, for almost hitting a royal – but he doesn't regret it. No, not at all. The prince – Arthur – is completely infuriating and Merlin doesn't want anything to do with him for a long while.

After receiving his punishment - two hours of having rotten fruit pelted at him and getting mocked by children and adults alike - Merlin is dragged to the physician's chambers by said displeased physician, so that the man can look over the bruises he'd required both from his near-fight with the prince and from being stuck in the stocks. Albeit Gaius is serious in tone, from the corner of his eyes Merlin sees the old man crack a smile at the whining; "My opinion still stands. He is a total dollophead!"

"Merlin, you cannot go about speaking of the crown prince in such a manner," Gaius berates him. "If you're caught you might face worse punishment far than you did today."

"Hmpfh. He's got no right to do what he did."

"He does, Merlin. He does have all the right; it's in his blood. What a simple peasant says matters little in the end." The man presents a bucket and a cloth. "Wash up and change clothes. I need your help to run some errands for me and can't have you walking around smelling of rotten cabbage."

With a sigh, Merlin takes the things offered, his thoughts yet lingering on the prince even if he doesn't want them to – I should've hit him! He deserves it!


	3. Part 2: The Prince and the Pauper [The Dragon's Call, part two]

**Part 2:**

# The Prince and the Pauper

**_[The Dragon's Call, part two]_ **

* * *

"What did your mother tell you about your gifts?"

The words are almost casual but rather careful across the table as they eat their evening meal, and Merlin looks up from the bowl surprised: Gaius seems so tight-lipped about these kinds of things, always telling him to be careful, he's pleasantly startled to speak of them.

"That I was - special," Merlin says coyly and adds; "But she didn't know anything about my magic, other than that I can use it, and I don't either – how it's possible … or why."

"Well, you certainly are special. I've never seen the likes before," Gaius remarks and it's difficult to determine whether the man is glad about this statement. Merlin returns to the stew with little enthusiasm. He'd expected the physician to say something  _more –_ he did know of his magic before he even arrived at Camelot, and surely he must have heard and read things Merlin never had.

He'd  _hoped_  …

"Did you ever study magic?" he asks curiously.

The old man pauses as if thinking before answering, and Merlin is sure he's only speaking half the truth. But he doesn't press for more explanations, not yet, because he knows the value of secrets.

"Uther banned such practices twenty years ago; people were using magic wrongly at the time, to satisfy selfish needs. The King made it his goal to eradicate it completely from the kingdom. Even the dragons were killed."

"Dragons?" Merlin has heard stories of the creatures as a child, of course, and he'd loved hearing of them: those magnificent fire-breathing beasts, sparking curiousity and awe to his heart. And he'd always known them to have been real, once, but never seen one with his own eyes. They were spoken of only as legends, myth; creatures of old times that were no more, long before the Purge or even the Pendragon rule. "All of them?"

"There was one in the land that he chose not to kill. He had it imprisoned, kept as an example."

Merlin stares. "How could anyone just  _do_  that? Dragons can't be easy just to … to kill and imprison like that."

Again, the answer is vague: "Briefly, he allied with the Dragonlords to fulfill this task. But, since the Dragonlords' craft is magical as well, the alliance was quickly disrupted."

The warlock shudders. How many people had died by Uther's axe?

His mentor suddenly reaches over the table and puts a hand on his shoulder, before standing, having finished his meal. There's a strange look on Gaius' face and in his eyes; pained by some distant memory, and Merlin wishes the man would tell him more even if the answers might be frightening.

"Try not to linger on it, Merlin," Gaius says softly, almost as if he's remembering those years. "It was a long time ago."

* * *

 

…  **MERLIN. MERLIN.**

Startled, Merlin sits, blankets pooling around his lap. The voice sounds so close, vibrating in his mind, almost like he could reach out to touch it. He looks around but the room is empty, all candles unlit. There's no one – nothing – but then  _where_  … ?

"Hello?"

A pull, like a tug of the sleeve just more powerful:  _come_ ,  _follow,_  but without words. Quietly, Merlin slips out of bed, putting on a jacket, and he creeps out of the rooms as silently as possible so not to wake the old physician; his magic responds instinctually, making his footsteps inaudible and he can walks through the corridors unhindered, like he's invisible yet he's not. There's no map and no instructions, but he's pulled in the proper direction, he's sure: he follows the tingle of magic, curious.

 **MERLIN**.

He slips past the guards, through the corridors and across the courtyard, into some part of the castle he hasn't been before, to a pair of locked, heavy oak doors. They swing open soundlessly.

 **MERLIN**.

Padding down long darkened stairs, only a tiny flame in his palm lighting his way: he doesn't falter, the way dwindling and darkening with each step, and if not for the steady call in his mind (a bit like someone's wrapped magic string around his wrist and is pulling relentlessly) he'd probably be lost in the maze, unable to get out and up again.

It's a cave.

He's not imagined a cave as massive as this before in his life, and to think that it's situated right  _beneath_  Camelot is astonishing: does people know of its existence? He marvels at the great walls of stone, the height of the ceiling, and dares not guess just how high it is. There's a faint glimmer in the rock, bouncing back onto the flame in his open hand. Looking around, it's difficult to determine how far the cave stretches - where it ends and where it begins – if there  _is_  a beginning and an end.

"Hello?" he calls out, his voice echoing seemingly for miles and miles and miles. "Is anyone there?"

Merlin expects a human being, a man to morph into sight from the shadows; someone taking form and shedding light on the strange voice which has called him here, tugging on his senses so relentlessly. A sorcerer. Maybe a druid, because he's heard about them being magic folk and appearing suddenly, swiftly, and sneaking about in the woods like shadow: the elderly in the village always warned the children not to wander too far lest they'd be bewitched and taken away.

What he doesn't expect is a  _dragon_.

It must be it: the dragon Gaius spoke of just hours before, Merlin realizes in astonishment, as it makes to land before him. Imprisoned right underneath the castle.

Does the city's inhabitants even  _know_? No – it's just not possible that they do, there'd be panic for sure … but Merlin isn't so sure. The dragon's presence explains the guards and locked doors.

The creature is  _huge_  and it flutters its gigantic leathery wings for a moment before lowering itself down onto a rock outcropping to look straight at him, wings folding neatly against the murkily green body. And then, its mouth opens – but for some reason, Merlin isn't afraid and he doesn't back away even if the creature could simply bend down and eat him in one single chew, or turn him to ashes with a single fiery breath. He's confused, startled, awed, but not afraid. It's almost like – but it's an absurd notion – like he  _knows_  the dragon and has met it before.

"How small you are," it says, tinges of amusement in its voice which Merlin now recognizes as the one which called for him in his mind; "for such a great destiny."

"…Destiny? What do you mean? How do you know me?" The questions stumble over his tongue before he can stop them.

"Your name has been written for ages. Long have I waited for you to appear! Do you not know, young warlock? Has none ever told you who you are?"

"What …? What do you mean, 'who I am'?" Merlin says, confused, staring up at the dragon. "I'm – I'm just Merlin. Why would my name have been  _written for ages_? That doesn't make any sense! I don't understand!"

"You are  **Emrys** ," the dragon says, almost a purr, dark and powerful and Merlin feels a rush of  _something_  at the name  _(Emrys? What does it mean?),_  tremors running through him, but can't pinpoint what exactly it is, if it's a good or bad feeling and that makes him only  _more_  confused. "And your destiny is finally beginning to unravel."

"Destiny?"

"Yes," the beast confirms, nodding a giant head, fixing him with yellow eyes: "Arthur is the Once and Future King, the one who shall unite Albion. But he cannot do it alone. Without you, this can never happen. Without you, there will  _be no Albion_."

"… But, but Arthur is a stupid, self-conceited, arrogant ass! It makes no sense!" Merlin exclaims, wide-eyed, not believing what he's hearing even if he can't really understand what this whole Destiny business means. It sounds totally  _crazy_. Uniting Albion; Once and Future King…! Arthur is haughty and stupid and – yes, a total a prat and Merlin sure doesn't want anything to do with him now or ever in the future and why the hell is he even listening to a bloody  _dragon_  anyway. "There must be some other Arthur because this one is an idiot!"

The dragon sounds amused, a chuckle deep in its throat: "Is he? Well, he may be now, but he shall, in time, grow to a great King. It is, after all, his destiny."

"And … what exactly do  _I_  have to do with that?" It just doesn't sound plausible that  _he_ , a boy from a tiny farming village, a  _nobody_ , should affect the crown prince of Camelot.

" **Everything**!" the breast exclaims heatedly. "You are two sides of the same coin; neither can be without the other! Without you Arthur will never realize the goodness of magic. Without you Albion will never be."

"…Magic?" Merlin whispers, like it's important to keep silent  _(it's a secret)_  even if no one can hear them down here, beneath layers and layers of rock and old, dark dust and stone. "But it's forbidden." A silent wear wraps around his chest, at the same time as a thrill, quickly rushing down his spine: does the dragon know of his magic?

"Yes," murmurs the dragon, sounding pleased; " **Magic**."

* * *

Stumbling back to his chambers many, many candle-marks later, Merlin's mind is swirling with questions. So many questions and barely any answers at all. Destiny? Arthur? King?  _Emrys?_

He wants to know so much  _more_. The dragon, though speaking riddles, talked like it  _knows_  him. And about his gift - it had said things about his gift, his  _magic_ , about  _him_  – not like his mother's sweet but thinly veiled assurances; "It's going to be all right, it's going to be fine." Not like Will's comments of the goodness of magic, his solid belief that Merlin can't possibly be  _evil_. Those words had always been warm, but they explained nothing, gave no answers.

But the dragon spoke of his gift like it  _mattered_. Like there's a  _ **reason**_. And a reason is what Merlin has been searching for all of his life.

There might be an answer. No, there  _is_  an answer. It thrills him, scares him deep down and gladdens him and warms him to the core, everything at once. There's a  _reason_ , and he  _will_  find out what it all entails.

Even if, for some inexplicable reason, he has to do so while ensuring Arthur successfully becomes King, so he might unite Albion, despite the man being the biggest prat ever.

Unsurprisingly, he cannot fall asleep that night, throwing himself onto the small cot with a tired sigh, torn between wanting to dismiss it as a dream and rushing back down and demand more answers.

Fate just seems to love throwing difficult things in his way and force him to overcome them. It is while probably sitting on a cloud far above right now looking down at the ant-like world of men, and laughing at clumsy silly little Merlin trying to make his way through life.

* * *

Morning comes far too bright and far too early. Breakfast is sitting on the table and the physician is reading a book when Merlin comes stumbling down the stairs, sleep lingering in his eyes. He tries rubbing it away.

"Morning, Gaius."

"Good morning, Merlin. I need you to run some errands for me today."

Work, work, work. Well, to make a living … Hopefully he won't run head-first into trouble today. "All right."

"Are you familiar with any herbs?"

"Some. I used to collect them for my mother."

"Good. I have a list of things I need. You can start by going to lady Morgana's chambers with this potion – poor girl suffers from nightmares. And then I need some hawthorn collected from the forest, fresh. I assume you know how to find it?" Merlin nods. Recognizing herbs and plants is always a useful skill, no matter of one's living. "Good," Gaius says, again, nodding in approval. "Once you're done with that, you can go down to the apothecary's. Just show him this list, say it's on my order and he'll give you the supplies I need."

The old man presents him with a small piece of parchment with a scribbled roll of words and names (half of which are unfamiliar and then there are some strange things too in there like frog legs and bone dust) and a small pouch with coins. The thing is surprisingly heavy. Merlin can't recall having held that much money all at once before.

"All right."

Gaius turns and leaves the room before Merlin has the chance to ask where on earth he'll find the apothecary.

* * *

 

Apparently, fate seems to do everything it can to make life difficult for him. First, when collecting the herbs in the forest, he trips on a root and falls into a bush, leaving his hands smudged with soil and grass and he dropped the basket, full of hawthorn, and Merlin's glad no one is around to hear him cursing (his mother would be so embarrassed).

With fresh dirt stains on his jacket, Merlin collects what herbs he can salvage and walks back to the city and within five minutes he finds he's lost in the network of unfamiliar streets. There are so many people, no recognizable faces and he stands there feeling more stupid than ever. He should have asked Gaius for a tour of the city or a guide or a map or  _anything_ to help him now!

"Hello. Can I help you? You look a bit lost," a voice suddenly startles him and Merlin nearly drops the basket a second time, swirling around to face the speaker. It's a young woman, very pretty with dark curls falling around her softly tanned face, and she smiles nervously at him when seeing his reaction. Her dress is simple and her hands worn by labour.

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" she exclaims. "I didn't mean to startle you!"

"It's alright," Merlin assures her with a smile. "I just wasn't expecting it."

"Oh, that's – that's good. That it's all right, I mean. I'm Guinevere," the woman introduces herself. "Most people call me Gwen, though. I'm the Lady Morgana's maid."

The lady's name was unfamiliar but then again, he wasn't from around here and wouldn't know about anyone of greater importance lest they acted like asses.

"I'm Merlin - but most people just call me idiot," he says causing the woman to laugh. Undoubtedly she must've seen or heard of the peasant challenging the prince and how the former ended up in the stocks. "Who's the Lady Morgana?" he asks, curiously.

The woman looks at him as if he's suddenly sprouted a second head. "You don't know about her?" she asks incredulously and it takes a moment for her to come back to herself, and the following words rush out at the normal rather quick pace, as if she's timid and uncertain of how to put them.

"She's the king's ward; her father was an old friend of King Uther's and at his death, the king took her in and adopted her. She's been living in Camelot since childhood though, I got appointed as her maid years ago, when she was very young. Once you've seen her you'll know it's her, she's absolutely  _stunning_!" A small giggle escapes Gwen's lips. "And she's quite fiery - not in a nasty way of course! But everyone knows that Prince Arthur is rather the bully and the Lady Morgana is the only one who dares challenge him. Not, you know, in a bad way, or that anyone gets hurt, of course," the woman adds quickly and takes a deep breath. "So that's who she is. I'm very honoured of serving her."

Merlin just smiles kindly at her, she seems very nice even if she appears to tend to babble (albeit Merlin also has tendencies to prattle so he can't blame her).

"She sounds wonderful."

Plus she also seems like the perfect sibling the prince would need to counter his pratliness. Had he the chance, Merlin would like getting to know her, but internally laughs at the thought. What are the chances even meeting the King's ward?

"Yes, yes, she is." Gwen seems to come back to herself and indicates the street with her free hand. "Do you need any help?"

"Yes, actually…I'm kind of lost. Do you have any idea where to find the apothecary?"

* * *

All of the way back Gwen chatters about anything between the heavens and the earth – no, that's no quite true, but it feels like it, and Merlin hasn't felt so soothed and relaxed in days. There's no one in Camelot but Gaius that he knows, but the old man is stern and has quickly adopted a guardian's role. Gwen is very open and kind and Merlin really would like getting to know her better. He doesn't want to spend his time in Camelot without any friends his own age.

Apparently, Gwen has been a servant since she was only ten years old. It's the structure of her life, the base of everything she knows: Merlin's curious of how it's like. In Ealdor he used to help with the harvesting, but he's always been quite sickly as a child and people have assumed him as frail, and many times not let him help with the hardest work; instead he'd aid his mother with everyday chores, washing and cooking and cleaning (and ignoring Will's jibes about that).  _Maybe Gwen and I have some things in common_ , Merlin muses, _we both want to help._

Upon reaching Gaius' chambers he thanks and takes goodbye of her, but not before asking whether they could meet again sometime, and Gwen says they'll probably meet at the market – she visits it almost daily.

"Who knows, maybe I could even introduce you to Lady Morgana!" she exclaims excitedly. "She likes walking through the city. You know, to look at the market sometimes when there are traders from afar, and to see how the people fare."

"Maybe," Merlin agrees, smiling but internally he just shakes his head. Him, meeting the King's ward? If he ever does it'll probably end like when he met Prince Prat – in the stocks.

* * *

He's crossing the marketplace trying to recall where to find the apothecary again, when an unwelcome voice makes him halt, momentarily.

"How's your knee-walking coming along?"

"Oh no, not  _again_ ," Merlin groans to himself when realizing exactly  _who_ has addressed him, and keeps walking hoping the man then will ignore him. But he has no such luck.

"Ohh, don't run away!" the Prince whines and Merlin reluctantly turns around.

"Run away? From you? Hardly."

"Good, I thought you were  _deaf_  as well as dumb."

Merlin sighs. "Look, I've told you: you're an ass. I just didn't realize you were a royal one."

The man raises his eyebrows at him as if he's just said the most ridiculous thing. Like yesterday he's wearing an armguard, and there's a sword in his belt. Three similarly clad men are standing behind him, smirking haughtily.

"Oh, what are you going to do?" Merlin taunts. "Have your bodyguards protecting you?"

The Prince scowls darkly. "I could take you apart with one blow."

He thinks of his magic and smirks. "I could take you apart with less than that."

"Ha! I've been training to kill since birth," the man boasts (if it is to be proud of; Merlin knows  _he_  wouldn't be proud of such a brutal thing).

"And how long have been training to be a prat?" he counters.

Arthur snorts. "You cannot address me like that."

"Oh, I'm sorry. How long have you been training to be a prat,  _milord_?"

Somehow, Merlin finds himself with a mace in his hand and the Prince standing in front of him swinging another, and it goes downhill from there. It's by some sheer dumb luck (and a little bit of magic) that he (nearly) beats Arthur in the fight than ensues, spurred on by the jeers of the crowd that's gathered.

But then he stumbles and Arthur's standing above him smirking at the victory and guards grabs his shoulders, hauling him to his feet.  _Not the stocks again,_  Merlin thinks in despair,  _I just got out of them!_

"Wait," the Prince suddenly says, stepping up to them. "Let him go. He's a fool, but a brave one."

The guards release him with a slight wrench, like they're shaking a misbehaving puppy, and Merlin suppresses a groan when it triggers a flash of pain in his shoulder. His side and back are sore as well: he must've hit something when falling but in the heat he's completely forgotten what or how. His breathing is still fast and harsh, and his blood sings with adrenaline.

Arthur regards him for a moment with blue eyes and his expression soften slightly, as if in thought; Merlin looks back at him trying to figure out what he's thinking. He struggles not to squirm under the Prince's scrutiny.

"There's something about you, Merlin …" he murmurs then. "I can't quite put my finger on it."

Admittedly he gets out of it easily this time and Merlin has a gut feeling this isn't going to be his last run-in with the Prince of Camelot. The Dragon's words ring foreboding in his mind. Can he really help change this arrogant man into the greatest King Albion has ever known?

… He has his doubts.

* * *

Gaius is more than furious when he storms down onto the square and more or less drags him away by the ear, ignoring his protests. The door to his room slams shut behind him, and the physician's ears practically have steam coming out of them. "Merlin, I've told you to be  _careful_!"

"He needed to be taught a lesson!"

"By using magic?" his guardian hisses.

Merlin squeaks. "You saw that?"

"As I suspected, then. You're lucky no one else noticed. Magic is to be studied and mastered  _with care_ , not used for foolish pranks!"

Something in his chest stings and he twists to look at Gaius angrily. "What's there to master?" he exclaims. "I could move things like that before I could  _talk_."

"Then by now you should know how to control yourself!"

"But I don't  _want_  to control myself!" Merlin is nearly yelling now, but it  _hurts_  having to suppress the emotions raging inside him. The words form on his tongue before he can restrain them and he can't even explain where they come from. He's always felt attached to his magic, but this feeling is new and surprisingly strong, this sudden need to defend it. Even at Will's questioning or his mother's reprimands he never got this  _angry_.

"If I can't use magic, what do I have? I'm a useless nobody. Without my magic I'm  _nothing_."

He storms up into the antechamber, his guardian worriedly staring after his back.

* * *

Later that evening someone softly knocks on the door announcing that they'll come in now, and Merlin untangles himself from the blankets. He's not been able to sleep. His body aches and he thinks he's torn the skin of his left shoulder – he must've fallen during the fight - it itches terribly and he can't stop himself from scratching it. But he's been unwilling to go down and ask for help, to come down and face the old man, still not entirely calm from his outburst. Facing him too early would just cause the emotions to resurface and he might do something stupid, possibly use magic unintentionally.

Gaius takes seat by the bedside and puts a water-filled bucket on the floor.

"Take your shirt off. Let's see what we've got," the old man hums and dips a piece of cloth in the warm water, turning away for a moment.

Merlin shivers from the chilly evening air as he pulls the garment off and presses it against his chest. When coming to face him again, Gaius doesn't seem to notice how his tightly hands are knotted as he clings to the fabric.

Since finding out about his different body, nobody but himself and his mother has seen him naked. When he was about fourteen, he noticed how his chest had started to swell just a bit, giving the illusion of a cleavage, and it made him even more self-conscious. It wasn't that prominent unless you really  _looked_ , or during his periods, then they'd sometimes swell a bit and grow tender to the touch. He's always avoided having to remove his shirt and it's the reason why he always makes sure to wear loose-fitting clothing. He doesn't like being stared at.

(So many times, Hunith had told him to be proud of himself and not so ashamed, but it's a constant struggle with his mind that he often loses.)

A hiss passes his lips when the wet cloth is pressed against the injury on his shoulder. "It might feel bad, but it's just shallow scrapes. It'll heal in no time," Gaius informs him.

"You don't know why I was born like this, do you?" Merlin asks, quietly, addressing the issue of his magic.

The physician pauses and shakes his head. "No."

He twists his head to look at the old man,  _pleading_  -"But why am I like this? Please, I need to  _know_."

"I have no answers, Merlin. I am sorry."

His shoulders drop in disappointment, and he thinks of his mother's sorrowful eyes and the dragon's cryptic messages. "If you can't answer then nobody can."

As if amused, Gaius chuckles. "I am not all-knowing, Merlin, albeit I'm flattered you think so. There might be others who do have an answer and I am sure that one day, you'll find out." A small cup is placed in the warlock's hands. "Here, drink this. It'll help with the pain."

* * *

The next day doesn't go as planned, either. Then again … nothing ever seems to.

Apparently, Gaius is allowed on the royal feasts and as his ward, Merlin is also invited. He has a minor panic attack when finding that out. Because a royal feast means the King is there - the (rather terrifying) King who beheads magical beings - and his son, Arthur, is probably there too and the Prince might find his presence so offensive that he's thrown in the stocks  _again_. It's an encounter he doesn't want to repeat.

"Do not be so downtrodden," Gaius says and smiles. "It will be fun."

"Fun? With that  _prat_  there?!" Either the Prince will ignore him or, more likely, he'll taunt him in a manner that is just asking for a fight or maybe he'll have him thrown out of the hall straight away. Merlin doesn't know what option he prefers.

"Yes. I'd like having an assistant there in case any accidents happen, given I am the court physician." Gaius gives him a thoughtful look. "Maybe you could begin learning the art of healing - I have no apprentice at the moment and I'm starting to get old. That way you would have an occupation, I might even persuade the Chief of Staff to give you a small salary."

"Yeah, maybe," Merlin agrees. His mother is somewhat of a healer and he's always been fascinated by it, after all, he might've picked up some. And living with Gaius this would only prove to be an advantage.

"It's a pity there's no finery for you to wear. I fear none of mine will be your size." Merlin is rather thankful of that fact. "Now clean up and stop being difficult, Merlin. I doubt we'll come close enough to the royal table anyway for Prince Arthur to order your head off."

"I wouldn't be so sure of  _that_ ," the warlock mutters under his breath, but concedes.

* * *

 

Though Gaius says it isn't that big a feast compared to others this hall has seen, there are so many people and swirling colours and voices - Merlin has never been at such an event before and can't make any comparisons other than with the Beltane feasts back the village.

Those had become smaller and smaller each year. He recalls colours and songs and dancing from when he was very young, but then, as of late, some villagers even had refused to attend. "They fear it will attract attention," his mother had said once, "that the witch-hunters and knights shall come and arrest them for magic." If there was any time magic had openly been used at the village, it was then, at the Beltane feast. Sometimes travelling jugglers and theatre companies came and with them, there was often an exile sorcerer who did small tricks before eager children's eyes. But such activities had ceased three or four years ago.

There's no magic here, no sparkling lights flashing in the dark sky thanks to it, but the bright colours and mixed variety of the nobles' dresses and the hundreds of candles might just make up for it. Not to mention the food: the tables are overloaded with all kinds of meats and fruits and sweets – it's enough to feed the whole of Ealdor.

Merlin doesn't know where to look. He wants to see and hear and taste it all, inhale every impression and take part of this great event – even if he feels as if he's double-crossing himself and other magic-wielders like him, for this is a feast in reminder of the Purge. It celebrates the King's decision the eradicate magic from this land forever, marking twenty  _successful_  years in the fight against magic. No, Merlin shouldn't be happy and definitely not celebrate. But even Gaius doesn't look as serious as usual and he can't help smiling himself.

When a tall and dark-haired lady walks past, wearing the most revealing dress he's ever seen in his life, his mentor quietly reminds him he's here to  _work,_  not gawk at the ladies and Merlin reluctantly averts his eyes.  _Is that lady Morgana?_ he wonders because the lady is truly  _stunning_. If it is then Gwen should be around here.

He's made to help with the final arrangements on the tables when he stumbles into said maidservant and her face lights up in surprise. "Merlin! What are you doing here? Not," she backtracks quickly, face flushing, "not that you're not welcome, or I'm not glad to see you, because I am! Just, you're not a servant at the castle, right?"

Merlin grins. "No, but I'm Gaius' ward and he wants an assistant nearby, in case anything happens." He glances toward the head table, where the dark-haired lady is having her hand kissed by the King in greeting, before moving on toward a group of knights. Only, it's not just unfamiliar knights: Merlin remembers a few faces from the incident in the market, and Arthur is there as well.

The prince is mock-hitting one of his friends in the stomach, feigning a brawl, smirking smugly and his friends laugh.  _The prat's probably talking about our fight_ , the warlock thinks and grimaces, ears burning.  _Bragging about his greatness … What a dollophead._

He speaks up again trying to stop thinking of the prince. He shouldn't – he's not gone here to get distracted by egoistical prats. But when he turns his head away he feels, momentarily, someone stare back at him from across the hall. He doesn't check to make sure.

"Is that Lady Morgana?" he asks.

Gwen nods enthusiastically. "She looks great, doesn't she?"

"Yeah."

"Well, some people are just born to be Queen," Gwen continues and pours some wine into a dozen glasses standing on the tray before her.

Before he can hinder himself, Merlin exclaims: "No!"

His eyes linger like glued on the lady, who approaches the Prince momentarily. He kisses her hand in a courtly, exchanging swift words and something Morgana says makes him scowl, before that air of pleasantness returns. Merlin drags his eyes away from them, focusing on Gwen's words instead.

"Well, I think so. She and Arthur are close, and they would have the people's support. And the prince hasn't taken up courting anyone yet, what I know of – nothing official at least," she says and blushes, probably thinking of some palace gossip that Merlin is glad he's not heard and hopefully never will hear. "He's a good man, inside," she adds, sounding hopeful – perhaps she's one of those people who always think the best of others; "even if on the outside he's a bully. What you did was brave."

"You heard about that?"

She nods again. "No peasant has ever challenged him before, not that I can recall."

"Oh well," Merlin mutters and looks away, ears burning, "it needed to be done. He's a total prat and a bully."

The maid gapes at him. "You can't call him that!"

"Of course I can," he says and grins, "on the risk of being sent to the stocks, naturally."

Frowning slightly the girl shakes her head. "You're so daring. But I like you. Not  _like_  like you, of course. Well, I mean," she corrects awkwardly when she realizes what she's said and that he might take offence; "I like you, like a friend sort of liking …"

"It's all right," he assures but can't help but gently tease her: "So what kind of men  _do_  you like? The rough, tough save the world kind of men?"

" _No_ , I prefer much more ordinary men like you."

He almost starts laughing at the irony of it all. "Believe me Gwen," he says, "I'm far from ordinary."

"I mean – not  _you_ , you but  _like_  you …"

Clearly flustered, she averts her eyes but Merlin doesn't take offence, knowing full well what she meant and that the words weren't to do harm.

He nearly stumbles on his tongue, though, on his way to agree with her on how he too prefers much more ordinary men but shuts his mouth with the words resting on the tip of his tongue. To say such a thing would be stupid – she'd probably think ill of him, or worse, someone else might hear and spread it around.

To save him from the awkward silence that's rising between them like a wall, Gaius gestures for his attention and he excuses himself and walks over to his mentor somewhat relieved, standing near a pillar close to the royalty's table. Briefly he glances over his shoulder to see Gwen also being occupied by filling some nobleman's goblet of wine.

"I want you to be my eyes tonight, Merlin," Gaius instructs him. "If any of the guests goes ill or the like, you must alert me at once."

"So I must stand here all night?" he asks, aghast. "But that'll be  _hours_!"

Gaius grins. "You're young! And there shall be entertainment, music, song. You can also drink and eat some from the servants' trays; you have my permission to do that. I'm sure you will enjoy yourself."

* * *

Then the witch enters the hall disguised as Lady Helen with a knife hidden underneath the folds of her dress, and everything quickly steeps downhill.

Merlin still feels so sorry for her. Her son might just have been doing magic innocently, to light a fire or heal someone, to do  **good**  –  _he might have been just like him,_ is the dreadful echo. But her revenge would be so bloody and if anyone should pay, it's the King, who's so ignorant and cold, not his son, who has nothing to do with it even if he is arrogant and self-centered. (Merlin remembers what she said though, at the courtyard:  _A tooth for a tooth. A son for a son._ And if there was something he could've done before to hinder this, he would've done it.)

A scream cuts through the hall as the chandelier falls, and then her breath turns ragged, her young face twisting to become old and fragile again. And then as the crowd slowly starts waking, the witch throws the knife in a last desperate attempt, aiming at Arthur's chest.

Without thinking Merlin lunges forward.

By a stroke of luck no one has come to their senses enough to see his golden irises as he pulls the Prince out of the knife's path, time momentarily coming to a stand-still, and the hall lies in complete silence.

They land with a heavy thud, the man's chainmail sharp against Merlin's hands and it takes a moment for them to break apart. He quickly moves to his feet and, despite a nearby servant's offers, the Prince refuses any help and stands by himself, staring all the while at the warlock.

It's rather unnerving.

"You … you saved my boy's life." King Uther stares at him in disbelief and bewilderment, just like the Prince and Merlin avoids looking at the blonde, whose blue eyes are fixed upon him. The whole room seems to hold its breath in anticipation.

"You must be rewarded," the King says, ignoring Merlin's feeble protests, and faces the crowd tall and proud: "You will be given a place in the royal household. You shall be my son's manservant!"

The crowd claps their hands, first hesitantly, then cheering and Merlin wants to sink into the earth forever and hide.

"Father…!" cries the Prince in protest, flushing with anger.

Merlin feels like he's stuck in a haze, a bizarre dream, a nightmare - it can't possibly be real. Standing in a great hall next to the King who beheads magical beings, who's claiming he's going to be the Prince's manservant. The Prince's  _servant_! Just because he doesn't want to see Arthur ruthlessly  _killed_ , it doesn't mean he wants to be near the arrogant prat always and serve him all day round and please his every whim and, and,  _and_  … !

He glances to his side, where the Prince is standing. Arthur senses his look and grimaces and Merlin looks away.

* * *

"Seems that you're a hero now," Gaius remarks later the same evening, giving him a strange shadowed look. Half-amused, half-guarded. Merlin wonders what's going through his head.

"Unbelievable isn't it?" Merlin muses, lips quirking.

The physician shakes his head. "No. From the moment I met you I knew there was something special about you, Merlin."

He raises an eyebrow: he hasn't expected that. Coming from Gaius that might even be praise. "Really?"

"Yes. It's not every day one saves the life of a Prince." Merlin can't stop the colour rising to his cheeks. "Truly, I have a feeling life has something extraordinary in store for you." With a secretive smile, the old man reveals something he's kept hidden beneath the table, wrapped in red cloth.

"This was given to me when I was your age, but I have a feeling you'll find it more useful than I did …"

Carefully Merlin accepts it; it's oddly heavy and smells of dust and mystery. Unwrapping it, he finds it's a book, decades old, maybe even older, bound in thick dark leather. Opening it, he sees the pages are full of signs he can't ever recall seeing before, a language he has never heard or learned – yet, something about it feels  _familiar_. Like he's known it before, for a long, long time, and now it's finally time for it to surface. Each page is vigilantly made, each word written with a careful but firm hand, each colourful drawing made by a very talented artist's precise brush. Merlin marvels at their texture beneath his fingertips.

His mother never had any real books in her home and only owned a few rough parchments; nothing of this quality. As a little boy he used to repeat the letters of the alphabet attentively in the dirt. What Hunith knew of the world and had taught him, she had learned verbally from her mother and father, and they from their grandparents before them, mostly verbally. To own a book was something extraordinary. It was a sign of wealth as well as knowledge.

"…This book, is it -?" he asks quietly, looking up at Gaius wide-eyed. Is this the same man who just a few hours ago warned him  _not_  to use magic?

"A book of enchantment, yes."

Merlin stares between him and the book in awe. "It's beautiful."

"And dangerous. I know it is a great risk to give you this, but your magic is strong and wild. It needs taming, and I cannot promise to have the time to teach you, nor the skill to do so. This book will provide a very much needed guide."

"But, I can't read it." Merlin glances up at the old man. His reading skills are limited, even if his mother did her best trying to teach him; there were more urgent things to do and learn in a tiny farming village on the border between two kingdoms not at ease with each other, than to read and write. And as he opens the first pages he's greeted by unfamiliar script, the signs not the usual ones he's been taught. He places a finger on the parchment, tracing a string of foreign letters. "No one has taught me this language…I don't recognize it."

Gaius' lips twitch in bemusement and Merlin wonders how he can be so sure when he says, "Oh, I think you do." With that, he stands, starting to clear off the table; the conversation clearly over. "Hide it in a safe place."

_Keep it secret._

_Do not let anyone know._

(Merlin stays awake late into the night, turning the pages of the book, tracing the words. He can't fall asleep when presented with all this new thrilling knowledge, knowing that perhaps one day, he'll be able to use all of these spells, make sense of them. One day, he'll have the control to do so - and maybe one day he'll even become that great warlock that the dragon claims that he must be.)


	4. Part 3: A Servant's Life [Interlude]

**Part 3:**

# A Servant's Life

**_[Interlude]_ **

* * *

He receives an unimpressed glare when he enters the Prince's chambers. However, the castle is a maze. Getting here was difficult; getting here  _on time_  was impossible.

"You're late," Arthur states.

"I got lost,  _sire_ ," Merlin says, adding that bit of sarcasm at the end without being able to hinder himself (not that he really tries to). The prince does not look impressed at that either. "The castle's a lot larger than I anticipated."

Curiously he looks around. The chambers are rather … bare. He wasn't exactly expecting gold shining from every surface, and albeit there are many comforts there and the bed is enormous, covered with pillows and more blankets than have ever been in his modest home in Ealdor, and there's a finely made fireplace, there are few decorations. No paintings; just a handful of red-and-gold hangings on the stone wall alongside a shield and sword also hanging there, but nothing extravagant. A chainmail is laid out on the table. All the furniture is functional rather than decorative.

Next to the table, Arthur's former manservant stands ready to attend. It's that boy the knights and Arthur had thrown knives at just a few days ago, Merlin realizes. The young man's jaw is set, there's something around his eyes: disappointment maybe. Clear dislike and resentment shines through his face when he sees Merlin walk in, and the warlock wonders if he'll have a chance to explain to him that he's not so happy with this arrangement either.

"Well, you are new here; it is to be expected. Do not let it happen again," the Prince admits but is still frowning. Apparently he'll let the excuse pass, this time. "Have you any kind of experience as a servant?"

Merlin shakes his head to that question – and the next, if he knows anything about armour (And how would he be supposed to know anything about that? He's never had any reason, or chance, to) – and the prince's frown keeps deepening. Maybe he'll get sacked right now and not have to worry about having to attend the prat anymore. He both wants and fears it to happen.

Arthur doesn't however, not yet. "We'll go through the basics, then." Merlin knots his hands behind his back, unsure where to keep them. "As my servant, you'll fetch me my meals, help me in my daily routines and attend me during knights' training. Besides cleaning and making sure my clothes are laundered, you'll also oversee my weaponry and armour, making sure they are kept topnotch, and see to my horses. You'll come with me on journeys and hunts if I see it fit, so you'll need to ride. Have you even ridden a horse?"

"Once or twice," Merlin answers honestly. He'd sometimes done it with Will when they were little and were allowed to borrow Will's father's horse. The man had worked in Cenred's service as a soldier and was rising in the ranks … but then he'd died so abruptly in a surprise attack when Merlin was eight and the horse had been sold so they could survive the following winter. "But not much."

"That's a skill that has to be polished, then. If you're ill and unable to work this must be reported to the Chief of Staff as early as possible so arrangements can be made, but don't think you're let off easily. Sickness means no payment, and if you're gone for too long I'll have to sack you. Any questions?"

A myriad is resting on the tip of his tongue. He tests out a couple of them in his head before voicing any; he doesn't want to sound completely ridiculous. But he really has no clue about a lot of things here. "Who's the Chief of Staff?" Merlin decides to ask. "And where do I find them?"

"Morris will show you that and where to find the things you need.  _Later_ ," the Prince stresses the word and gestures at the other servant, while Merlin is more than ready to leave right now.

"As my manservant, you will also be trusted with keys to my chambers. Keys only I, the King and the Chief Guard also have access to. Do you understand what a responsibility that is?" Arthur leans forward, hands resting on the back of a chair. Merlin is trapped by the serious gaze, as if this is an interrogation: he feels not unlike when he was six years old and caught stealing apples with Will.

"If you are caught sticking your nose in matters you oughtn't, there'll be no softer punishment just because you're my manservant or Gaius' ward. And if you cannot handle your responsibilities properly you  _will_  be replaced without further ado. Do you understand?"

Merlin nods. "All clear, sire. Like crystal."

Arthur straightens up. "Good. One more thing. Do you know how to read or write?"

Clearly the prince expects a negative answer, since he's just a peasant, for he looks astonished when Merlin answers the opposite. "Yes, sire. I've been taught some."

For a minute, the prince regards him, silently in thought. "That might prove useful," he says at last and tells Morris to step forward. Arthur dismisses them both with the wave of a hand: "You may leave now. Return in three candle-marks; I have a council meeting to attend to.  _Don't_  be late."

There's a shadow over the other servant's face as he crosses the threshold for a final time and Merlin follows him warily. If there's any way to make Morris les angry with him, Merlin would take it. He doesn't want to start gaining enemies already.

* * *

"So how was your first day as Arthur's manservant?"

Collapsing onto the bench Merlin picks up a spoon and nearly inhales the porridge which is all the evening meal consists of. "How can  _anyone_  produce that many dirty socks in one day? And then the amount of floors he wants to have scrubbed, and mucking out the stables, not to mention the  _armour_. Gods, how did his last manservant keep up?"

Gaius smiles kindly. "It'll get better after awhile. He's just testing you."

" _Testing?_ Torturing is more like it," Merlin splutters.

"He's not switched manservant since he entered his twelfth winter," the physician informs him and hands him an apple, "It's new to him as well."

The almost starving warlock munches down the apple in nearly a single bite. During the busy day he had had little time to rest or eat; there was simply so much that he had to see and learn, and since the Prince had constantly had

 _Let the prat suffer some too then!_  Merlin thinks _. It's only fair._  "Honestly though, I really can't see why the King thought this as some kind of  _reward_. I'd rather have, I don't know, some silver or ..."

His mentor fails at hiding his bemusement and Merlin scowls even more. "Eat up now, Merlin. You need to go to bed early so you won't wake late."

* * *

Gaius is right; it  _does_  get easier after awhile.

The while is long though, and Arthur steadily remains a prat, ordering more work to be done all the time and rarely (if ever) praising his efforts. Nearly a week passes and Merlin slowly tries to fit into the life of a servant of Camelot.

There's so much that he has to learn, and quickly; so many unspoken rules and ways of the castle staff. His days are busy and he has few moments to himself. Whenever possible, to get some privacy and get away from the staring, judging eyes of older servants, he does chores like polishing armour in Gaius' rooms. His mentor is initially not very pleased about that, but thankfully allows it as long as he's not in the way and then he often uses his own antechamber. He just needs those time to  _breathe_  and clear his mind, so that he won't go mad with the stress.

Then, there's the matter of the baths. There are some public bath chambers for the servants, simply for convenience, but they offer no privacy and he could never use them, he knows that – he'd give away his secret too easily. Carrying and heating water in his own room takes more time and energy, but it's worth it, and he's relieved no one questions it, especially not Gaius.

The other servants pose another bother – it's not directly a  _hindrance_ , but a lot of them are constantly giving him cold looks as he walks down the corridors trying to figure out where each one of them leads. Others plainly ignore him, while the rest murmur like gossip mills behind their hands. Few of them ever help when he asks, so tries to do all on his own, to show both them and Prince Arthur that he's independent and not as incompetent as they think.

Part of him understands, but part of him is so  _frustrated_  at them – instead of helping or answering his questions, they turn away, deeming him not worthy to be among them. Some have struggled for years and  _lives_  to become a servant at the castle and he … He's just arrived and already been brought to one of the highest and most sought after positions.

His saviour turns out to be Gwen. The girl always is ready to guide him to the right place and give him invaluable advice. Honestly, Merlin doesn't know what he'd have done without her.

"You still haven't met lady Morgana," Gwen bemoans one afternoon when they meet as they're both fetching food for their master and mistress respectively.

"I saw her at the feast," Merlin reminds her, recalling the tall, beautiful and somewhat intimidating woman.

"But it turned out such a disaster, with the witch and everything!"

"And me having to serve His Pratliness," the warlock sighs and Gwen looks at him incredulously.

"It's an honour," she says, wide-eyed. "Surely you know that?"

"Everybody keeps telling me that, but I'm having a hard time seeing what's  _honourable_  about washing the Prince's stinking, dirty socks."

"Well," the girl blushes and stammers that awkward way she does sometimes when she's thrown off her guard, "when you put it that way..."

They reach a crossroad and have to part and Merlin is somewhat thankful that their conversation is put to a halt there.

* * *

He's surprised when, instead of presented with a bucketload of chores when returning to the prince's chamber that afternoon, he's told to sit by the large table. A couple of books and an empty scroll lie on the wooden surface, along with a quill and an inkpot.

"So you tell me you can read and write," the Prince says. He sounds … perplexed. Intrigued. "Who taught you?"

"My mother, sire," Merlin remembers to add the title (Arthur is annoyed enough with him as it is). "She always said it was important to know, even if I wasn't meant to be a scholar or scribe."

"Hmm."

Maybe the prince thought Gaius had taught him. It's understandable actually; peasants rarely know the art of reading, but Gaius is the court physician and for him such a skill is vital. Passing it onto his ward would only be natural.

"Write something then."

The servant hesitates to pick up the quill. He's not  _that_  apt at writing, and he's no idea what words Arthur wants on that piece of parchment. "Write what?"

"''The importance of propriety is far too often forgotten by tedious servants,'" the Prince proudly dictates.

"I won't write  _that_  – sire," Merlin protests feeling insulted but dips the quill in the ink anyway. The object is unfamiliar in his hand, so light and it's tricky to place it properly against the parchment. Nothing like writing in the mud with a stick. The first few letters are a messy jumble and his fingertips quickly get coated in dark ink.

"You really were serious when you said 'some', then," Arthur says and smirks, unwilling to admit it but he's impressed. It might take a moment for the servant to get the hang of it, but the text  _is_ readable. The Prince had made sure Morris, his former servant, had been taught to read and write by Geoffrey, the royal librarian and historian, in case situations should arise when the boy needed to know it - but already Merlin is proving to excel him. And the boy is just a  _peasant_  with no proper education or anything!

" … 'The importance of propriety is far too often exaggerated by stubborn dollopheads'," he reads off the paper and snorts, his nose wrinkling up as he makes a face. "We have to work on  _your_ sense of propriety."

And somehow, Merlin finds himself assigned to having writing lessons with the prince of Camelot. The Prince takes seat next to him, picks up his own quill and shows him how to write  _properly_. Something about him changes then. He's not less stern, but somewhat softer and less a prat, and once he cracks up and chuckles even if the smiles are rare and he still reprimands him in an annoyed tone whenever he finds any fault in Merlin's progress.

But once two candle-marks have passed and it's dark outside, the now filled parchments are collected and the quills put down and much to Merlin's disappointment Arthur adopts his usual façade again.

"Don't forget to be on time tomorrow," he reminds the servant before Merlin is pushed out of the door without further ado.

* * *

"Why are there ink stains on your hands?" an astounded Gaius asks when he comes home that night, both physically and mentally exhausted.

Having the prince hovering on his shoulder for two candle-marks in a row only made it difficult to concentrate and his hand unsteady. The nearness of the Prince, his breath close to his ear, had been so distracting and Merlin just had wanted it over with even if part of him had wanted to stay, especially when Arthur laughed. He'd never before heard the man laugh.

"His Pratliness decided I needed to improve my grammar," he says, slightly disgruntled. "And chose of wording."

"He teaches you himself?"

"Yeah," Merlin nods, missing the incredulous look on his mentor's face, and moves to grab the bread next to the pot but Gaius waves his hands away.

"Wash those first.  _Without_  magic," the physician adds, knowing his ward's proneness to using his gift far too freely for the old man to remain calm.

"But getting rid of the ink without it will take  _ages_!"

A bucket is placed in front of him.

"The quicker you start washing, the sooner you may eat."

Defeated, the warlock sighs and gives in.

* * *

Merlin wakes up to a dull, throbbing pain his lower abdomen. Groaning, he turns over and crawls into the blanket, curling into a ball, as if it would subdue the pain.

 _Damn … it's early._  Merlin tries to will away the aching. But it doesn't work: it remains steady and disconcerting like the heat of a midsummer day.

Glancing upwards toward the window, he sees that the sun is barely up yet: the light is crisp and fresh, and the air is slightly chilled falling onto his chin. Groaning he shifts and tries to go back to sleep, but in vain.

Eventually, with a sigh, he eases out of bed, pressing a hand to his stomach. He'd rather just close his eyes and sleep away the next few days. But he can't. He doesn't want Gaius to worry or the prince to get suspicious: if Merlin fails to show up for his duties, he'll probably be fired on the spot. Not that initially he'd complain about that, but …

There's been one attempt to take Arthur's life within Merlin's first  _week_  in Camelot. How many more will there be in the following weeks, months,  _years_? (Although thinking that makes him feel odd, he shivers; something in his chest twists both with excitement and fear. He tries to ignore it, not to linger on it at all.) Someone should look after the prat; make sure he won't get himself killed. (A more logical part of his mind reminds him that he's survived  _without_  Merlin's help for some twenty years; what would a few more matter?)

But maybe,  _maybe_ , a small part of Merlin's heart wants to stay because everything can't be lies and even such a prat can't be arrogant all the way through. What Arthur needs is someone to remind him that he's a man, not just a prince, and that he has flaws but that doesn't make him less worthy. And teach him not to be so pratheaded and arrogant. It'll be tough to get it through the prince's thick skull but Merlin is stubborn, he's set his mind to this. He's determined to succeed, even if it takes time – months, maybe  _years_. (But he tries not to linger on that notion either.)

And there's something else, a hot-and-cold feeling settling in his blood, coiling it and making his heart pump faster and his skin get goose-bumps every time the Prince talks in a certain tone, when he looks over at his manservant a certain way. Like last night, when realizing that he can write, Arthur had looked almost –  _proud_. Not really but  _almost_.

But it probably means nothing. To Arthur, who's oblivious, it's nothing, and it will never be more than  _nothing_. The prat would never consider them friends and they'll never  _be_  friends; even if they somehow manage it, there'll always be a sharp line of master and servant between them, hindering them and why would Arthur even desire to form friendship with a commoner like him anyway?

Plus, Arthur is a cabbage head.

Slowly, he stands and begins rifling through his belongings for some straps of cloth. He always makes sure to have some in store for when the time of the month comes, and he wraps one around his thigh and hip to catch the blood. Then he quickly changes the bed sheets, piling the stained one beneath some dirty clothes; he'll wash that later today with the rest, then Gaius won't notice.

He doesn't know how to use his magic to get rid of pains or stop the blood completely, and wishes more than ever he could now. Having to serve Arthur today and walk around like nothing is wrong, scrub floors and polish armour and bow to courtiers, when he'd rather just crawl into a ball for the rest of the week, hide beneath thick blankets and be left alone – it'll be utter  _hell_.

Merlin is hit by longing for his mother's herbal tea and her soothing voice, stroking his forehead. It feels all so far away and out of reach. When will he see her again and have her comforting presence push his worries away? Will she  _ever_  deem it safe enough for him to return?

Gaius is still asleep, so after putting on his boots, jacket and a neckerchief, Merlin sneaks out of the room grabbing a piece of bread on the way. The bread doesn't taste so good, dry at the edges, but he's hungry and not very picky at the moment (he's already learned that Gaius' culinary skills do not excel his mother's, unfortunately). It's early but the castle is already awake: mostly guards and the occasional servant on an early errand. The lords and ladies will sleep for a few more hours.

His feet steers him toward the kitchens. They're bustling with life and smoke and voices: the cook and a handful of maids are in full swing with preparing breakfast, chopping meat and vegetables and boiling water. The earthy, musty smell of food and smoke is somewhat soothing, and Merlin lingers in the doorway (trying to make himself as small as possible, lest the other servants may get angry at him for being in the way. That's something he's learned quickly here: stay out of the way and you'll get along better with everyone), ignoring the cook's curious looks while waiting for Arthur's tray to be prepared.

It takes barely half a candle-mark and when the tray is placed in his hands it's still early. Should he wake Arthur now, or wait? Maybe he should sneak in and place the breakfast on Arthur's table, and wait some more before waking the prince? Either way the food will probably get cold unless he uses some subtle magic but then, it wouldn't be the first time he'd done that (heating food and water is, anyway, the only kind of magic Gaius actually  _allows_  him to do).

Most mornings, Arthur is already risen when Merlin gets to his chambers, and greets him with: "Late again,  _Mer_ lin!" – grumbling the name exasperatedly, but still mentioning it and drawling it like it's somewhat  _important_ ; Merlin has only been in Camelot a short while, but most servants doesn't seem to get called by name  _at_   _all_  by their masters or mistresses. Then Arthur would go on with: "Once more and I should have you replaced for your incompetency."

Despite the threats, he's not been fired,  _yet_. Merlin still feels on edge whenever Arthur says anything about him being kicked out, left bare-handed: the change of becoming a servant was swift and abrupt, but now Merlin isn't sure what he'd do if he lost his job. It's a kind of anchor, making a place for him in the city. Without that, what would he do?

Merlin hesitates for a moment before making his way to the prince's chambers. Waking Arthur or not, he can't just stand in the corridor with the royal food. It looks very tempting … He wonders if Arthur would notice if a tiny slice of that delicious-looking pie disappeared? There's enough to feed three fully grown men anyway …

Arriving at the prince's chambers slightly less hungry, he sneaks inside as quietly as possible. The prince is asleep, snoring into the pillows, the white and red covers pooling around his waist. In sleep, Arthur looks younger, so much less tense and somewhat vulnerable, and the arrogant shell he wears during the day has melted like snow in spring. The sunlight falls nicely onto the planes and dimples of his chest and stomach, strong and firm, the muscled body that of a well-trained warrior; the sun-kissed hair looks soft and well-kept even at disarray.

Not that Merlin observes this in particular, or anything. Quickly the servant busies himself by quietly picking out the prince's clothes for the day, his palms suddenly sweaty, pulse sped up.

This, he can already tell, will not be a good day.

* * *

No, it's  _not_  a good day.

After breakfast Merlin helped Arthur into his armour – it was difficult, his hands disobeying him all of a sudden and the man was all too close and  _why_  was he so sensitive about every slightest movement, sound, breath? It didn't help either with the prat's annoyed grumbling and glaring at him with that fixed gaze, making Merlin feel like a helpless deer trapped by two dozen hunters armed with crossbows.

It took ages to get it right and Arthur kept staring impatiently, stomping his foot once, jibing in usual pratliness about his servant's incompetence and Merlin had to . Then, he gave Merlin the order to put on the Prince's old armour (the one he hasn't used since he was sixteen and the chainmail sleeves are slightly too short for Merlin's long limbs, but otherwise it's too large on his thin frame) a helmet and grab a sword and meet the prince in the training field in half a candle-mark. Wearing it makes him feel like an utter idiot and he wonders what the other servants and the guards think when he passes them by. He catches one or two pitiful looks sent his way.  _Wonder if Morris had to do this,_  he thinks. Well, he'd not be surprised, considering the Prince's attitude – this might probably be just another way of his to torment his servants.

So here he is now, with a too-big piece of metal hanging heavily on his body, a sword weighing down his hand uncomfortably, his stomach aching and Arthur standing in front of him in battle poise, smirking.

"Well go on,  _Mer_ lin. We haven't got all year."

"Why are you making  _me_  do this – why not one your knights or a castle guard; someone who actually has been  _trained_  handle a sword?" Merlin asks, incredulous.

The prince's face is hard to read, something between mischievous and secretive. Merlin really wonders what's going through the prat's head. "You're my  _servant_  and I'm the prince, so I can't see what say you have in the matter, really. Now. Raise your sword!"

Reluctantly, Merlin raises the weapon trying to copy the prince's stance, but he can't find his balance and feels all wobbly and left-footed. When the first strike comes – the prince claims he'll be careful and that he  _won't_  cut of the servant's head first thing but Merlin has his doubts – Merlin fumbles to parry the blow, and the next, and the next.

"This is stupid," he mutters. "Idiotic. You are nothing but a dollophead."

Arthur doesn't seem to hear him. (Which might just be fortunate, when the man is armed.)

* * *

Actually he doesn't lose any limbs, which is a pleasant surprise, but his head feels like it's been inside a giant bell afterwards; the prat took  _far_  too much pleasure in hitting the manservant's helmet repeatedly with the flat side of the blade. The duel is slow and surely pathetic and all, but Merlin's body feels heavy and tired, and when it's  _finally_  over he sinks to the ground thankful for some rest. He takes off the helmet, running a hand through his now sweaty hair. Ugh. Definitely a bad day. He drops the sword as far off as possible (but close enough to be able to pick it up again if, _god_   _forbid_ , the prince decides to start another match).

Thankfully, Arthur doesn't. He takes seat next to the servant; his expression and tone is slightly odd when he speaks, almost surprised. "I thought a country lad like you would have more muscle, from toiling with the earth, but you are just bones and sinew. I'm astounded you didn't back down at once. Most servants do that."

"You expected me to  _give up_?" Merlin splutters. If it wouldn't cost him his head, Merlin would've very much enjoyed turning the prat into a frog or a donkey right now.

"Not really," the Prince says, glancing at him. "You've shown some great stubbornness and courage, and a great deal of stupidity as well."

"I am  _not_  stupid, while you will forever remain a prat, sire."

Arthur grins at him, nudging his arm with a gloved fist. "That's questionable."

"Well, it's questionable whether you will ever stop being such a dollophead," Merlin retorts, and is given a (rather hard) shove in the arm.

Obviously that's one insult too many for the hour, because the Prince tenses up and then stands, face more serious. Merlin braces himself for the inevitable. "Gather our weapons and take them to the armory along with that chainmail," Arthur orders, a tinge of annoyance to his tone, "and fetch a bath to my chambers."

* * *

As he drags himself to bed that evening Merlin is thoroughly worn out.

Between chores from Arthur, dealing with hiding his period and having to run small errands for Gaius whenever the old man sees him (the old man has an annoying tendency to do that, always snatching him no matter how busy Merlin is with work for the Prince), he's had little time for himself. The stomach cramps are worse than they've been for months.

He finds no rest, shifting uneasily and glancing up at the window, watching the dark sky sway outside the glass. Being tired but unable to sleep is pure agony, and against his will, his thoughts wander and he thinks about his new home and misses his mother with tears prickling behind his eyelids; and he thinks about Arthur, oh the giant prat, how much he  _loathes_  the cabbage head and – and how nice Arthur is sometimes as the shield around him cracks, and that the man has a nice smile, at least the kind, soft one (but it's incredibly rare) when he's about to laugh. If only he could be less arrogant and ignorant sometimes and …

* * *

Just an hour or so before the breaking of dawn, his eyes slides shut on their own accord. He's curled up in a fatal position with a faint frown on his brow.

He dreams.

It starts out part parody, part nightmare, and he tries clawing at the walls to get out but he can't. The dragon is staring at him with golden eyes. "MERLIN. MERLIN." its voice echoes, "IT IS YOUR DESTINY." from the cave which morphs into the royal great hall, the tall ceiling covered with torches and candles and coins, and the King who beheads magical beings is standing in front of him huge and regal and intimidating.

"Young warlock, you must be rewarded. You shall be my son's manservant!" he announces and the people cheer and clap hands, while the Prince, the prat, mutters and curses Merlin's stupidity and clumsiness and inconvenient magic.

Merlin turns and flees toward the doors.

But the doors are moving further and further away from him, the earth quaking and all the people in the hall are smirking at him mockingly, and piles of rusting armour and dirty socks and a hundred pratheaded Princes laughing at him all at once are building all around him, like mountains, trapping him. Panic flares up in his chest. "Let me out! Let me  _out_!" he cries, pushing at the nearest copy of the prince who pushes him back into the chaos.

"YOU CANNOT ESCAPE YOUR DESTINY!" booms the dragon's voice over the Prince's lips, filled with fire.

But Merlin doesn't want to. Doesn't want to! Arthur's a prat, an arrogant selfish prick and why on earth should he care about him, why should he –? He wants  _freedom_  over his life, make _his own choices!_ Everything unwanted happens to him, magic and being a freak of nature and stupid destinies thrown in his way. He wants, he  _needs_  to flee. Run. Get away. His knuckles are white, palms sweaty, his vision blurry and he's dizzy, can't find his footing, can't find anything to hold onto.

"Stop it!" he screams at the dark,  _"_ Stop it! _Get away from me!"_

The talons around him suddenly loosen, as if startled, and Merlin swirls around and leaps out of the nearest window. Nothing but air beneath his feet and hands as he flails wildly to grasp it, anything, anything for support, to hold onto, for safety – for anything – he just doesn't want to fall. Fall like this, freely and slam into the ground. His heart is beating wildly. His eyes tightly shut as the ground rushes towards him –

"Merlin," the dragon's voice mutters, almost admonishingly like to a naughty child, and twists into something soft: like his mother's voice which is completely bizarre to the large green body and yellow eyes, sharp teeth. "Merlin," it sighs and shakes its head – then the voice changes again, grumpier and more confusing than ever before: "Merlin, the sun is already up."

That voice has never belonged to that face before: he didn't think Gaius was green, had wings or horns or anything like that. The voice's owner shakes his shoulder, impatient, not letting go.

"Time to wake up, boy. I'm going to the market to buy some turnips."

* * *

Gaius is shaking his shoulder, violently snatching him from void dreamscapes and hurling him back into his body, where he's uncomfortable, confined, hurting and awfully tired, a dull headache beneath his temple. Merlin makes a distressed noise as he wakes.

"Oi, wake up."

Merlin tries to bat him away to no avail and buries his face in the pillow, turning away from the shadow hovering above him.

"Have you perhaps forgotten you're the Prince's manservant and thus must wake before him?"

… Prince's manservant. Wake before him. The words register like a bell from afar and the warlock peers upward, eyes opened in a crack: sunlight blinds him and he groans in pain.

Right now, Gaius is surely giving him the Dangerous Eyebrow Look (which Merlin has already gotten to know and named in his mind; it's silly he supposes, but the old man does look strangely dangerous when that eyebrow is raised, his gaze stern.) If it's one thing he's learned during his first week in Camelot, it's that Gaius is easily grumpy. Not only in the mornings. And a grumpy Gaius might very well mean more work, cold food and a quite  _dangerous_  Gaius.

"Merlin. I'm not telling you again."

"All right, all right!"

 _Please just go away_ , Merlin adds mentally. He doesn't like to be scrutinized during his time of the month: it makes him uncomfortable, feel out of his shell, afraid that anyone will see beyond the paper walls he's built around himself.

His jacket lands on his face, blocking out the morning sun and soothing his eyes a bit.

"And clean up this mess! This room looks as if it's been hit by a hurricane."

It's useless to protest, because he knows Gaius won't accept an apology like  _'Sometimes I lose control of my magic when I dream.'_

* * *

"…And then my armour needs to be tended to before the tournament begins."

"Is that all, sire?" Merlin asks, unable to keep the strained tone at bay.

The Prince sends him an annoyed look. "You seriously have  _no sense_  of propriety. You're lucky I'm willing to overlook it as long as you continue tend to your duties with quality – albeit what  _level_  of quality that is, is debatable - and not sack you at once."

The warlock bites his tongue to keep the sharp comeback resting on the tip of his tongue in check. Arthur is already worked up about the upcoming tournament, constantly claiming he's absolutely _not_  nervous but three days ago there wasn't any agitation to his step or any faint worried line across his temple.

Merlin doesn't want to get cross with him, really. Just – just remind him that he's human, that's all, not completely perfect because  _no one is_. Lately he's been even more of a prat – even if it seems impossible to believe – and begun throwing goblets. That in addition to the discomfort of the bleeding and Merlin feeling so torn between wanting to stay and check on the prat, almost _concerned_  about him, and wanting to run,  _run_  far away and never look back and never return – it makes him stressed too, on edge just like the Prince and as of late all he's been able to say are either annoyed short replies consistent of "yes sire" and "no sire" and sarcastic remarks, and combinations of both. He can't offer the prince any comfort, ease his apprehension. Part of him is kind of glad, actually. Let the prat suffer some too! The man is otherwise so pampered and served everything on a silver platter.

Merlin nods sharply and gathers the braces thrown carelessly about the room. For a man so attachedto his armour, the prince is strangely unconcerned about his treatment of it, at least outside the training field.

"The fireplace needs sweeping. And don't forget to bring me lunch once I'm back from council meeting."

At least he doesn't demand another sparring round.


	5. Part 4: I Am the Shield, You Are the Sword [Valiant, part one]

**Part 4:**

# I Am the Shield, You Are the Sword

**_[Valiant, part one]_ **

* * *

Two days later, the tournament begins. The bleeding stopped the night before and thankfully Gaius didn't notice a thing during those days. No one suspects a thing, and Merlin can relax somewhat; exhale and focus on what's ahead.

He's heard about them, of course - the tournaments.

In the meadow half a mile outside Ealdor, by the edge of old man Simon's field, he and Will had often sat in the grass and talked and laughed. Merlin had, since he first was explained to what tournaments was, always called them silly – why would anyone want to bonk someone else in the head with a sword! – and Will had laughed then, calling  _him_  silly. Of course one wants to fight, for glory and honour, to show the world how strong you are!

Will had long had this private dream of becoming a knight, a soldier. To fight and find glory and honour and  _be someone_ , not just a simple, nameless farmer among thousands of others. His father had worked in Cenred's army, and more than once Merlin had found his friend hiding in the storage barn, staring like awed at the man's worn blood-splattered chainmail.

But at the same time, Will deeply despises nobility , those who truly could be knighted (the life of an ordinary soldier is far less glamorous than that of a knight) and never ever wants to become one himself. Royalty caused his father to die and ripped apart his family. So he never acknowledges the fact that his dream is very possible – he could walk to Cenred's city and ask to join the ranks and undoubtedly be accepted, being a young and strong man. He never acknowledges it because becoming a soldier would make him serve _them_ , one of those he so despises, even make him one of them.

The warlock is, in a selfish way, incredibly glad about that. Will joining the army would undoubtedly part them and his dear friend might even die on a field somewhere far away without Merlin even being warned, perhaps without him even ever  _knowing,_ and no one would be there to remember.

* * *

Merlin had thought Camelot to be crowded upon his arrival, but now the streets are  _swarming_  with people and every inn is full: people from far and wide have come to watch the game.

Knights from far and wide have come to this great event. The servants all-over the castle chatter excitedly about the event; few can actually afford betting but some does it anyway, throwing caution to the wind, and a lot of money is put on the city's prince. Merlin hears from all sides – even if few talks to him directly, him being a newcomer, an outsider – that Arthur has been Champion for five years in a row. Everyone expects him to win again.

For a moment, Merlin imagines being the Prince. Of having the pressure of a whole city, a kingdom, on one's shoulders, and he shudders inwardly, the alikeness of his own situation to that of the Prince's hitting too close to home. But there's no one who knows and no one to tell, save the dragon which is chained deep down in a dark cave and it can't reach him. If he suddenly had enough and left the city and everything behind, who would be able to stop him?

And anyway, if he ever told Arthur about the prophecy and destiny and being two sides of the same coin, the prat would just laugh his head off, call him an idiot and order him to muck out the stables.

* * *

Putting on armour is far more complex than it looks at first glance. Desperately he tries remembering what Gwen had told him, but still fumbles with the fastenings and Arthur is growing more and more impatient by the minute.

"The tournament starts  _today_ , **Mer** lin!"

"You seem nervous," Merlin remarks, disliking the tense air and hoping to ease it somehow. He glances upward just in time to see the Prince roll his eyes exaggeratedly.

"I don't get nervous," the prince retorts annoyed, looking ahead not facing Merlin as he speaks.

"Really? Because I thought everyone got—"

"Will you  _shut up!_ "

Reluctantly, Merlin does as he's told, handing Arthur his helmet. He looks at his handiwork quite proud that he managed it, even if it took awhile. All the straps and metal pieces are at the right places.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"What?"

"My  _sword_."

Oh. It was a stupid mistake, he admits, too obvious to miss but he's new to this job so it's  _really_  not his fault. He picks up the weapon and Arthur tears it angrily out of his hands. "You really are an incompetent cabbage."

When the prince stalks out of the tent with set jaw and narrowed eyes, Merlin frowns after him.  _If I could somehow make him drop that prattish attitude, if just for one moment, my life would suddenly feel so much easier …_

* * *

The king stands to speak, and immediately, silence falls. "Knights of the realm, it is a great honour to welcome you to this tournament at Camelot. Over the next three days your skills as warriors and your bravery shall be put to the test, and of course, you shall have the chance to challenge the reigning chance, my son – Prince Arthur." There are excited murmurs and Arthur holds his head high. "Only one can have the honour of being crowned champion and the winner will received a prize of a thousand gold pieces."

It's an insane amount of money, and Merlin cranes his neck to see the King open a safely guarded and locked box on his right. The contents glimmer in the sun. Merlin is certain that if he owned all of  _that_ , he'd never have to work a day more in his life.

He glances around to look at the knights gathered on the field, surrounded by cheering people waving flags. The only colours he can really recognize are Camelot's, who has three knights – Arthur of course; and sir Leon who is one of the Prince's oldest and most experienced knights, but Merlin has never been acknowledged by the man (or any other knight) so he can't say he knows him; and the younger sir Evan, to whom Arthur spoke this morning in the armoury about some sword technique or the other (Merlin wasn't actually listening very closely at the time).

He can't place what houses or kingdoms the other knights are fighting for, except one – he recognizes the emblem of Cenred's royal house without doubt. The tax collector that comes every year to Ealdor is always guarded by men in such armour, and the same armour was worn by the men who came, so many years ago, to take the old woman away and Merlin shudders unwillingly at the memory.

One of the knights catches his eye though. There's a dark gleam on the man's face, his pose is haughty, more than the prince's (how that's physically possible Merlin isn't certain): his hair is a dusty brown, his gaze calculating. Upon his yellow cape the image of two green entwined snakes are sown. The man is kind of handsome, but looks so cold, so intent but ruthless even as he stands still that Merlin averts his gaze, hoping he won't run into the man anytime soon.

After the King has announced the tournament open, the knights file out except for two men who are to face each other first. Arthur isn't to begin competing until tomorrow. As the latest Champion, he isn't to fight until the last best few have been chosen. The men bow to the king, nod in acknowledgement to each other and draw their swords.

The Prince takes seat next to the King, regal and quiet and unreadable, and Merlin is forced to stand back among a group of other servants ready to attend; mulled wine and small foods have already been prepared, in case one of the royals or other lords and ladies sitting there wishes for it. For once, the servants dare to drop their silent demeanor and they engage in watching the battles on the arena with burning enthusiasm, cheering and crying out in all the right moments.

But Merlin finds himself often not looking at the fight but at the Prince – his jaw is set stern in concentration, his eyes focused clearly on the fighting men. Intense, calculating every move; perhaps he's internally running a commentary. Once, when sir Evan is facing an opponent in blue, he grimaces and mutters something about; " … he has to move his feet! I've told him a thousand times!" loud enough for Merlin to hear and the servant wonders if that's why he was so nervous before; for the sake of his men. At other times, he cheers, especially loud when sir Evan wins the match in the end.

The sun glints in Arthur's hair and, though he is not to fight today, he's wearing chainmail under his fine tunic and long red cloak. Arthur's right hand, resting on the hilt of his sword, is slightly curled - like he's ready to jump onto the arena any moment and join the battle. Merlin's eyes are drawn to that hand, strong and slightly calloused at the edges, but it also looks safe – comforting, warm.

Then, realizing that he's openly staring, Merlin flushes and swallows, looking away sharply.  _What am I_ _ **doing**_ _?_  he thinks, horrified, heart pounding faster. He shouldn't be thinking like this – not about any man, but especially not his master! It would bring nothing but tears.

* * *

He remembers painfully clearly the last time it happened – the  _first_  time it happened. It had hurt, in a way he wasn't prepared for, it had hurt having to suppress his emotions and he'd felt so … confused, uncertain; he hadn't known what to do. And he couldn't stop looking at Will when the boy shed his shirt on hot summer days when working in the fields, couldn't stop watching the fall and rise of his chest as he breathed reminding of how precious and fleeting his heartbeat was. Couldn't stop listening to the boy's voice, warm and lovely and caring even when the words weren't. Couldn't stop thinking about Will at sleepless nights when it definitely wasn't right to do so. He knew any kind of approaches weren't welcome. After all, what's he compared to some beautiful smart young girl?  _Males didn't love males,_ even someone half-male-half-female like him _:_ it's as simple as that. All those words pushed upon him, they were like chains, steadily growing and trapping him.

Of course, his mother knew - he couldn't possibly hide it from her. (He tried hiding it for a time and Hunith had actually been  _upset_  then when finding out, hugging him fiercely and reproaching him for not telling her at once – he'd clung to her support like a lifeline.) She'd promised him it would be all right, soothed him with meaningless words, said that it would pass and that time would make him  _forget_. Because she knew as well as him that he couldn't act on those feelings; that they would lead to nowhere. In time the feelings would pass … and they did, even if part of him didn't want them to, not truly, because even if the feelings scared him they also made him feel warm and safe.

Maybe that's why he'd been attracted: Will was practically the only person beside his mother he spent time around and who  _cared_  about him. Will had early taken him under his wing: let him cry on his shoulder, and played with him under the oak, and they had run around and explored the village and the fields around searching for adventure as children while doing trouble and Merlin had felt so _happy_  with him like with no one else.

Will hadn't treated him like he was different. Sure, there were jibes and sometimes hurtful words, but Will never really  _meant_  it. And if any of the other village boys had taunted Merlin for being fatherless or for his big ears or something else and tried to push him into the mud, Will had defended him with fierce protectiveness and (more than once) angry fists. Neither of the boys' mothers had been happy to have them coming home covered in dirt and bruises.

But that was years ago and they had grown up since they and somehow grown apart, even if they still had shared moment together in silence – after now, this close to adulthood they had more responsibilities toward the village and their families, more work and less time to just  _linger_ , to walk around aimlessly and talk nonsense. Merlin had eventually learned to swallow the emotions. And then they had seemed to grow away. Fade into a shadow. If not fully disappearing, at least he could ignore them. Will wouldn't accept feelings like … Never like that.

They were friends, not loving one other. Will was protective of him, but constantly bragging about how he was going to woo and marry that girl, Libya, he liked so much and pointed out that he'd help Merlin find a nice girl too, and Merlin hadn't dared tell him that he didn't  _want_  that – that he didn't want a pretty girl, no matter how nice, but rather a boy, rather  _Will_. Because Will wasn't that kind of boy.

Being like that wasn't normal. The cleric travelling between the villagers had sometimes preached about it, the sin, alongside witchery and blasphemy, it was a sin so dark you should burn for it, a constant reminder of your unnatural perverted ways. Each time he heard it, Merlin would turn his head away, feigning respect for the cleric while an acid voice in his heart echoed  _Freak you're a freak you're a freak_ and afterwards he'd seek refuge at the back of the cottage, in some dark dank corner where no one could see, arms wrapped around his knees as he cried, alone and scared and confused: why was he like this? Why was he so abnormal? Why were everyone hating people like him for something they couldn't help, couldn't stop? He  _wanted_  it to stop! He wanted to be _normal_  and  _liked_!

But no one could hear his silent pleads, there were no answers and certainly no redemption.

Sometimes, he'd wondered what'd happened if he ever told Will. In his fantasies it was a chilly autumn evening under the last rays of sun, shoulder to shoulder: '…Will. I – I like you.' In his dream Will would grin and cup his cheek, palm warm and strong, safe: 'I know.' And in the fading light, the other boy would lean in and kiss him and everything was perfect, he was warm and complete. But it's just a silly little dream, nothing that would ever happen. Reality would be so much harsher, with shocked words, stares of disgust, screams of 'Get away from me!'

* * *

Merlin is brought back to the present by the rising cheers of the audience, sharp in his ears. Sir Leon is standing in the center of the arena, arms raised in victory, and the foreign sir Bade walks away with hunched shoulders, hands tight fists: maybe he's disappointed, or angry, or ashamed of losing.

He's so distracted that he jumps when someone nudges his arm.

Gaius grins at him. "Are you perhaps beginning to have fun?" the old man asks.

" _Maybe_ ," Merlin replies with a sigh. "It's not  _that_  bad … except that I still got to wash the royal prat's dirty socks."

"Then you won't mind that you have to clean the leech tank before going to bed."

" _Gaius_ …!" He can't believe the old man! How can he be so  _evil_?!

The physician chuckles. "Now enjoy yourself, have fun. I'm sure you'll be busy with Arthur's demands later on."

"Yeah, that's the understatement of the year," mutters the warlock, arms crossed over his chest. How did his last manservant manage that partly attitude and not collapse because of it all?

* * *

" _That's_  who you're going to fight?" Merlin asks wide-eyed when preparing the prince for his second fight the following day. Yesterday, Arthur had won over the first opponent he'd faced with a kind of ease and grace that Merlin found incredibly fascinating. It had almost looked like the Prince had toyed with his opponent like a cat with its pray, right before striking, and the attack had been smooth and deadly.

The servant glances across the field, at the giant of the man dressed in green: a servant has to step onto a small pallet to be able to reach up and adjust the man's helmet. His arms are as thick as Merlin's legs, and he reckons he could upturn trees from their roots with his bare hands.

"He's strong as a bear, but he's slow," says Arthur.

"And you're fast," the warlock realizes.

"You figured that out yourself?" The Prince raises an eyebrow at him, clearly amused. A gesture which Merlin returns with a dark look.

"Ha ha, very funny."

But later, under the heavy sun, Merlin finds his insides knotting with apprehension as he watches Arthur battle the giant man, all annoyance from earlier forgotten and he cheers loudly when the Prince rises as the victor. Knots that won't untie until he sees Arthur leave the arena triumphant and unharmed.

* * *

"Sire, may I congratulate on your victories on the field today."

Arthur nods at the yellow knight. "Likewise."

"Creep," the servant mutters when sir Valiant, still wearing that slimy expression Merlin doesn't like, turns around and leaves.

The Prince snorts and momentarily glances at him like agreeing wholeheartedly, before his face turns serious again and he begins listing a whole lot of duties, of polishing and washing and mucking out of stables, that makes Merlin want to hit him. Seriously. The man is such a dollophead more often than not.

* * *

It's when he's fetching Arthur's chainmail from the armoury the following morning that he first notices the shield.

Merlin gasps and nearly falls backwards across a table covered with finely adorned hunting knives, when – it happens very quickly, almost like an illusion but he's  _certain_  he's seeing it – one of the green snakes on the shield  _blinks_ , moving ever so slightly … like it's  **alive**.

Horrified, Merlin reaches out a hand, to make sure that he's not imagining things. But an angry voice cuts through the chilly morning air just when he's inches from the wood:

"What do you think you're you doing, boy?" And the blade of a sword suddenly appears lightly pressed against his throat, near the artery. Merlin's eyes flicker upwards, pulse unwillingly speeding up at the threat.

Sir Valiant is staring at him with cold eyes and Merlin feels unnerved, and backs off, fumbling to grasp all pieces of Arthur's armour scattered on one of the tables. "I – I was just fetching the Prince's armour," he says quickly and glances at the shield one last time, before hurrying out of the room, sensing a pair of suspicious eyes burning on his back.

* * *

There's something off about the yellow knight and his shield. Merlin is  _certain_  of this. The man's fighting is ferocious and merciless and it's like he barely manages to hold back the killing blow each time; and by every hour the knight comes closer to having a place in the finals where he'll face Arthur. That worries Merlin, in some inexplicable way … even if Arthur is a good fighter, is he good enough to win against sir Valiant?

 _Not that I care,_  Merlin thinks quickly, in almost-honesty,  _if Arthur wins or not._

But what if the snakes on that shield really  _can_  come alive?

Sir Evan's wounds cannot be explained simply by a sword fight, and he trusts Gaius' expertise in the matter – no, something is definitely not right. But since apparently being a servant means you can't just go up and accuse a knight of cheating, he has to find proof first, if he values his head - and Merlin does.

"Merlin," Gaius says in a serious tone when the boy opens the door with purpose. "You must be careful!"

Merlin throws a reassuring grin over his shoulder. "You know me - I always am!"

The old man barely holds back a sigh as his ward disappears out of sight. He understands Merlin's actions, but his ward can be so rash and reckless, as Gaius has learned during the few weeks that Merlin has been in his care. The boy's selflessness and sense of righteousness was almost dangerous. "Unfortunately, I do…"

* * *

Breaking into a knight's chambers is a suicidal act, but Merlin doesn't hesitate. If the knight's shield really is magic, and the snakes can come alive, that explains sir Evan's wounds and sudden fever. It could even save his life, if he could just get his hands on that shield – or one of the snakes, at least. If he shows it to Arthur, then the prince must believe him, right?

The room is plain, with very few personal possessions – the bed is neatly made and there's a wooden chest by the foot of it, closed with a lock. Merlin instinctually is drawn there and he sweeps his hand over the lock, which opens with a click as the warlock's eyes glow a warm golden.

There it is: the shield, next to the knight's sword and a pair of leather gloves. The warlock debates with himself for a moment, before reaching out to touch it – the shield doesn't  _feel_  at all strange to his fingertips, like any shield in the armoury. But when he closes his eyes and concentrates …

The hum of magic, steady and familiar, has something dark and foreboding about it and Merlin withdraws his hand with a sharp intake of breath. While his own magic is like a a complex system of layers and he's felt this web wrapped around everything and everyone around him, faint but steadily there – only apparent if the person really has magic, like with lady Helen - and he can only feel it if he truly concentrates. But the magic on the shield is jagged: one single spell darkly covering everything else on it. That must be it! What causes the snakes to come alive! If he somehow can _remove_  it, then –

Footsteps, echoing in the corridor behind him, cause Merlin to pause. There mightn't be time enough! He needs that evidence somehow.

He glances back at the shield – to find three snakes staring back at him while hissing and showing sharp teeth. Merlin launches forward, grabs the sword, the motion made with a sort of fluidity he hasn't known himself to possess before. He reacts just in time to defend himself from one of the snakes which moves to strike: jaws open wide, white deadly teeth glimmering in the candlelight.

Its head falls with a thud on the floor.

The footsteps are just meters from the door, and there's no time to get rid of the evidence of breaking in; Merlin drops the sword and grabs the snake's unmoving head, and rushes out of the room through the servant back-door, relieved to find the corridor behind it empty.

* * *

"Gaius! Gaius!"

The loud cry startles the old man. Merlin runs into the room as if chased by a storm, something in his left hand that catches the candlelight with a green hue. "I've got it! Here! Look! The shield's magic, Valiant's shield, and it made the snakescome alive – look!"

The snake is not of a kind that Gaius recognizes, and he knows most of the species in the vicinity of Camelot; also, he's not blind to magic. It's the only logical explanation. "How did you get your hands on this?" he asks.

"I had to sneak into sir Valiant's chamber," admits Merlin and momentarily averts his gaze, sensing his mentor's frown – an expression he's already come to fear. "But I had to! I had to get a look at the shield, to make sure about the snakes. And then the snakes just … came alive! I don't know how, maybe some protective magic – maybe they sensed me as a threat? They tried attacking me but I managed to grab the nearby sword, and there you go."

"Merlin…" Gaius shakes his head at his ward  _(how could the boy be so reckless!)_ andchides: "I told you to be careful!"

The rest of the scolding, however, must be saved until a better moment later on after this has been dealt with. Right now, the physician has a dying knight to heal, and his ward has another knight to frame for using sorcery. He sincerely hopes Merlin will not do something outrageously stupid in order to do that; the King would not be mild in such case.

While the physician extracts poison from the snake's teeth to produce a cure for sir Evan, who lies wrapped in blankets feverish and delirious, Merlin waits impatiently by his side. "Will he be all right?" he asks worriedly for the second or third time in the last half hour. He might not know the knight, but he can't deserve to die like this.

"He is very lucky that you discovered sir Valiant's use of magic, Merlin," Gaius tells him solemnly. "If not, he'd probably be dead by morning. Now, he has a chance to by that time be awake and able to tell us – and more importantly, the King – what really happened."

"And then sir Valiant will be caught?"

"Hopefully, yes."

That kind of answer isn't the absolute one that Merlin seeks. It means that Valiant can keep fighting until then and hurt, maybe  _kill_ , more men. In the finals today …

The finals. Where the winner is going to face the champion -  _Arthur!_

The warlock jumps out of his seat as soon as the physician is finished, and grabs the snake head, and rushes out of the room. "Merlin?" shouts Gaius after him. "Where are you going?"

"To tell Arthur!"

* * *

"You?  _You_  cut off its head?"

"Yes!"

The prince sends him a look of disbelief but nonetheless picks up the snake head to examine it. The scales are almost unnaturally green, the yellow eyes blank and lifeless; the fangs are still dangerously sharp. The cut is clean – surprising him, as Arthur had expected Merlin to more stand and  _hack_  at the thing until the head fell off. If what he says really is true, that is.

But with this solid proof in his hand and Merlin's eyes fixed on him in earnest – how can the servant be lying?

And more importantly though:  _what reason_  would Merlin have to lie about this? To lie would almost certainly end with his head on the chopping block. While clearly an idiot – sneaking around in a knight's chamber for example (Is he completely suicidal? Has he no sense of self-preservation whatsoever?) – and sticking his nose into trouble, not even Merlin could be  _that_  much of a fool. Accusing a knight  _with_ proof is a risk enough!

"Swear to me what you say is true."

Merlin looks him in the eye. A thing no normal servant would dare to do. "I swear it's true."

The Prince holds his gaze firmly. There's no trace of deceit in his servant's eyes. Arthur stands frozen for a moment, debating internally what to do. "And Gaius can treat sir Evan?"

Accusing a knight is dangerous – especially so if you accuse him of sorcery. No weapon is stronger against the word of a knight, than the word of  _another_  knight; with sir Evans as witness then there's a much higher chance to prove to court and the King that sir Valiant  _is_  using magic to win the tournament. None would listen to a mere servant, Arthur knows, but they would listen to the Prince and his own men.

"Yes, now when he's got the poison from the snake … he was making an antidote when I left. Gaius is the best physician you can find – he'll cure him."

The boy speaks with such intense conviction that Arthur cannot fault him.

"All right. I believe you."

Something stirs in Arthur's chest when profound relief falls over Merlin's face, making the boy quirk a grin, but the feeling fades quickly and is replaced by abounded energy as the Prince begins to plan how exactly how to break these news to his father.

The king will be  _furious_.

* * *

"What do you have to say to these accusations, sir Valiant?"

Uther's tone is stiff and stern, and Merlin feels quite small where he's standing half a step behind Arthur. The Prince sounds calm and determined but his eyes blaze. In response, sir Valiant both sounds and looks composed, calm, not at all angry or even surprised. There's pity even, when he looks at Arthur and then his eyes darken when they find Merlin – pinning the servant down. Condemning. Calculating.

"I have nothing to hide, Your Highness," the knight responds in a perfectly oily voice, which could be used to fool nearly anyone but Merlin doesn't believe a word of it. "If it is the case, that the great prince Arthur has doubts of our upcoming battle in the arena, I would with honour let him withdraw."

Arthur glares at the man, furious. How dare he say such a thing, before the full court!

"Is this true? You fear the fight?" the king asks in a sharp voice, obviously also insulted - and ashamed at the though of having a coward as his son.

 **"No!**  Never. I have both proof  _and_  a witness that sir Valiant has been using magic against his opponents," Arthur says heatedly.

Then Gaius comes sneaking inside the council chamber, and bows before the king. "Sire. I am afraid the witness – sir Evan – is dead."

The words makes Merlin's heart fall like a rock.

That was the  _one factor_  that could change everything; that could get Valiant caught, prove that they were  _right_ , that he was using magic for his own gain. But without sir Evan, without his account on the events …

Merlin feels angry, disappointed so suddenly and violently, and mixed with the shock and sorrow for the man's death, even if he never knew him, nearly makes him physically ill. He wants to lurch forward and scream and show to them, show to them that Valiant is using magic. He's even carrying with him that shield right now on his arm – he could do it, Merlin is sure, he could make those snakes come alive and  _show them…!_

An old hand catches onto Merlin's arm before he can do anything and Gaius sends him a warning look. "It will not help anyone to anger the King anymore, Merlin," his mentor mutters quietly so only the servant can hear.

Merlin bites the inside of his cheek and he glances at Arthur, who is standing diagonally to the left in front of him; the Prince looks tense …  _Disappointed_.

"So you have no proof against sir Valiant," Uther says coldly. "Have you seen him do magic yourself?"

"No, sire," Arthur admits, "but my servant fought one of the snakes from-"

The King draws himself up to his full height. "A servant? You dare make these outrageous accusations against a knight based on the word of a  _servant_?"

The Prince's neck flushes red with anger. "I believe he is telling the truth, sire," he bites out.

"My lord," sir Valiant cuts in, smoothly – he doesn't look very angry or even abashed, as if he  _knows_  and Merlin senses the man glance at him momentarily. "Am I really to be judged on some hearsay from a mere boy?"

"With none able to testify against sir Valiant, I can only interpret this as mendacity. Arthur, apologize to sir Valiant immediately," the King proclaims.

 _Apologize? Why should Arthur apologize, when it's true, when Valiant has just_ _ **killed**_ _one of his knights? It's unfair – it's wrong!_ Merlin can't be quiet anymore and Gaius' steady hand on his arm doesn't sway him.

"It's true! I saw the snakes come alive!" he cries out.

"How dare you interrupt? Guards, take him away!"

Merlin doesn't struggle against them, their grip is bruising. But then right before he's dragged out, sir Valiant speaks.

"Please, milord. I am sure he was merely mistaken. I wouldn't want him punished on my account." He bows again, all in respect and propriety to the King.

Uther, accepting the plead, nods his head, and on his order the servant is released even if the guards stay close in case Uther has a sudden change of heart. "You see?" He turns to his son. "This is how a true knight behaves – with gallantry and honour."

Stiffly the Prince turns to sir Valiant and bows his neck and there's so much fury in his eyes, but still, he apologizes, admits to his grave mistake, voice like silk. Merlin has this urge to scream ' _No you dollophead! Don't apologize!'_  and unleash his magic, making those snakes come alive and forever wipe that smug expression off Valiant's face.

* * *

The door slams open and remains so, the Prince pacing, heels clicking across the stone:

"You  _humiliated me_! Now the whole courts think I'm a  _coward_!"

"Arthur," Merlin says and steps forward and he shouldn't have done that, shouldn't have overstepped the thin line this early, when Arthur is so upset. It's a mistake he realizes too late and he can't remedy it.

But he wants to comfort him some way and make him see – make him see that he's  _right_  and sir Valiant and the rest are  _wrong_. That Arthur isn't a coward. In fact Merlin is proud of him, for the Prince to take the side of a commoner: for standing up for what's right and not just side with the most powerful word. But now it seems that side of the Prince is once again being replaced by a giant pratliness that the warlock loathes.

"Merlin – be quiet," Arthur growls, tone low.

Naturally, Merlin doesn't listen. "Valiant lied," he says, "it's his snakes that killed sir Evans and he won't hesitate to do it again! Listen to me, you shouldn't fight him tomorrow. If you do,  _he'll kill you_."

"I have to fight. It is my duty." The prince glares at him as if  _Merlin_  were the snake. "I need a servant I can trust and obviously, I cannot trust you."

The words sting in a way Merlin isn't prepared for and his throat thickens all of a sudden. "Arthur -"

"Get out of my sight. And don't return. I release you from your service."

"Don't fight him. Whatever you do -"

"GET OUT!"

The servant storms out of the room and the Prince is left clenching fists in frustration, and neither notices the yellow eyes from upon one of the beams in the ceiling that has been observing the whole scene.

* * *

The cave is just as dark during daytime as during nighttime.

"How can I protect someone who hates me?" he cries and the words bounce off the walls, fleeting and impermanent.

The dragon regards him with large eyes, chuckling, and Merlin can't understand what's so amusing. Arthur might  _die_  tomorrow and the stupid dragon is laughing in his face!

"A half cannot truly hate what makes it whole. Soon you will realize that, young warlock."

"But what should I  _do_? He won't listen to me! Nobody will, and Valiant will kill him and go free."

It's so unfair - the dragon gives him only riddles.  _And magic is forbidden and hated, so I can't counter him in the open,_  his mind supplies. If he tried anything like that he'd get arrested for sorcery and probably for trying to frame Valiant as well, and either way it would end with his head on the chopping block.

And what would Arthur do if finding out that his manservant –  _former manservant_  he reminds himself abruptly - is a sorcerer and sneaks down to talk with dragons where nobody else can see?

"It is not his time to die yet. The answer shall come to you," the dragon says, emphasizing the last few words, and right before Merlin turns, sensing the conversation has reached its end, the creature adds; "That yours and Arthur's path lies together is but the truth. This is not the end. It is the  **beginning**."


	6. Part 5: A Duty Unasked For [Valiant, part two]

**Part 5:**

# A Duty Unasked For

**_[Valiant, part two]_ **

* * *

Like the king, Gaius is fuming - however with worry, not ire - when his ward returns. "I found fresh bite marks on sir Evan's throat."

The body has been covered with a plain white sheet and is already starting to grow cold.

"So Valiant sent a snake to finish him off," Merlin says bitterly. The knight somehow must have noticed the cut off snake head – the shield looked no different, but maybe one of them refused to come alive anymore. Or he noticed someone had been to his room and put two and two together. Lastly, Arthur had openly revealed that his servant did the deed in the council chambers not long ago. Either way, the knight now knows who did it and with the King on Valiant's side, Merlin knew he could be in trouble, even if Valiant showed leniency before – it was all just a show to get Uther on his side.

"How is the Prince?" Gaius asks. To say he'd seemed agitated when leaving the council chambers would be a great understatement.

The warlock begins to pace back and forth between the stone walls, biting his nails and looking at the door ever so often, as if said Prince would barge through – angry, anxious, forgiving; it doesn't matter which, just there's a  _reaction_. Merlin wishes he could go back in time and turn things right … but he's not sure  _what_  he'd do then even if he were able to.

"Angry. Disappointed. I'm pretty sure he sacked me. He definitely doesn't want to see me again ... Like it's  _my_  fault!" he exclaims, upset. "If I could just … just, somehow … Just  _how_  do I convince him not to fight tomorrow?"

He sinks down on a chair and stares at the physician, wide-eyed and miserable. "He won't listen to me at all. Valiant might kill him, Gaius. He  _will_  kill him of he's not stopped."

" _You_  must stop him, then. Like you did at the feast."

Merlin's jaw drops at this suggestion: Gaius always, always keeps warning him to be careful, and to hear him suggest this … "You mean using magic at the tournament? In the open?  _In front of everyone?"_

The old man knots his hands solemnly. "It is a risky thing I ask of you Merlin, but I believe you are the only one capable of revealing his deceit."

It's not like he's got much to lose right now, Merlin admits; and maybe he could do it subtly, quietly from a corner when everybody else is focused on the fighting. He just needs to figure out  _how_.

* * *

"Oh, hello."

Surprised he looks up to find Gwen standing there. She looks concerned. No doubt she's heard about what happened, either through talk in the corridors or through lady Morgana.

"Hi, Gwen," Merlin says gloomily. He's sitting on the grand stair leading into the castle, thinking, trying to come up with some reasonably logical idea but so far, he's had no luck, even trying to come up with utterly insane solutions that wouldn't work in real life. He has … nothing.  _Nothing_  that could stop Valiant in the fight tomorrow.

He's already scanned trough his magic book but the spells had made no sense or, if he figured out what they're for, they can't help him in this matter. So now he's sitting here, brooding and feeling rather pathetic and useless.

The maidservant takes seat on the stone steps next to him, anxiously smoothing down her skirts. "Is it true? About sir Evan's death and Valiant's shield?"

"Yeah."

"What are you going to do?"

Merlin turns his head to look at her with a raised eyebrow and recalls Gaius' words just an hour ago. "Why does everyone seem to think it's down to  _me_  to do something about it?"

"Because it  _is_. Isn't it? You have to show everyone that you were right and they were wrong."

Her logic is so straightforward and simple – he wishes the solution was as well.

"And how do I do that?" he counters, palms up in despair. "I'm just a servant, nobody would listen to me."

She heaves another sigh and lets her eyes sweep over the courtyard. "I don't know. It's so unfair, that the King and his men don't listen to servants like they do to nobles. You know?" He nods distractedly. "Maybe if you, I don't know, found more proof, physical proof … Something they cannot doubt, that they see with their own eyes."

The solution hits him like a crossbow bolt and he wants to hit himself for being so stupid, when realizing how  _obvious_  the answer is. It should've been the first thing he'd thought of!

That's the moment Merlin catches sight of the statue. It's rather dusty and insignificant in the corner of the yard; no one gives it a second glance. Surely, no one will miss it if it's gone for a few hours …

"That's it! Gwen, that's brilliant!" he exclaims, jumping to his feet and rushing off.

The woman rises and calls after him: "Merlin? Where are you going?"

But he's too busy trying to make sense of his newly formed plan to properly answer. He can just assure her it's going to be fine and rushes off to find a wheelbarrow.

* * *

Gaius gives him the eyebrow look when he enters the physician's room, probably about bringing the heavy old statue and getting dirt everywhere; Merlin ignores it. There are no words to berate him however.

There has to be a useful spell somewhere in his magic book.  _Somewhere_. If he could just find it …

As if on cue, just half a dozen pages later, his eyes catch bold black lettering and he has a feeling at the bottom of his gut that  _this must be it_. He's never seen the words before, but on a subconscious level immediately understands how they can be used and he grins.

This might actually work!

* * *

The day passes by and falls into eve; there are no stars tonight. Merlin does not notice, however, he's pulled the curtains and closed all doors (just in case) and is lying on his stomach on the mattress, book resting propped against the foot of the bed, in front of the dog statue.

Which stubbornly remains a statue for hours and hours and Merlin keeps chanting the spell, aloud and in his head, searching for the magic inside him. Weaving it around the statue, trying to  _push_  it into the stone, bury in the core and make it come alive. But for so long there's nothing, not a twitch and he nearly gives up hope.

He's stubborn though.  _More stubborn than any piece of rock can ever be,_  he tells himself, and keeps on going.

* * *

"Make me proud."

Arthur's heard his father utter those words countless times by now. At each tournament or competition they've been a constant reminded echoing in his ears between the ringing of clashing swords.

Today, the words are unusually sharp and cold though, a sharp reminder of his  _blunder_  yesterday. He can't bash his stupid manservant's head in for humiliating him, the idiot has run off somewhere – he wasn't there this morning to help him into his armour and the servant Arthur had to call for happened to be even worse than Merlin. All quivering hands and uncertain with the clasps and probably not knowing where the put the helmet. Arthur had endured impatiently.

It doesn't matter that he might believe Merlin. The snake head had been  _real_  and he hadn't been blind to the accusing glances sir Valiant had sent his manservant – making him wonder just how Merlin got his hands on that snake. The boy has some nerve and courage, traits Arthur has always valued among his knights, and never looked for in a servant before. But it doesn't matter now. Maybe Valiant is using magic, maybe not, either way Arthur is going to beat him.

He's going to give his father a reason to be proud of him.

* * *

"…  **arisan cwicum.**   **Bebeode þe arisan cwicum.** "

Gods, he's  _tired_. He wants to sleep so badly, if he just closes his eyes a little bit … a short while … **"Bebeode** …"

Outside, the local chanticleer crows loudly over the rooftops.

Something lands suddenly in his lap, causing him to startle. Something heavy and breathing and  _barking_.

Merlin's eyes open wide and he drops the book onto the floor. The dog is pawing at his knees and now trying to possibly eat up his face like an eager puppy, and it's  _alive._

It worked! The spell worked!

It's now when he raises his head he notices how high the sun is up – or, well,  _that_  the sun is up at all. The tournament probably already has started! He's got to get there now, before it's too late.

The dog tries clawing at his boots when he runs out of the room and he remembers to shut the door in the last minute; Gaius wouldn't be happy to have a dog on the loose among his valuable medicine equipment.

"Merlin!"

He twists his head as he realizes he's just run past his guardian. The old man looks worried.

"Where are you going – and where have you been? Arthur has been looking for you. His battle with Valiant is just about to begin."

"I've got it!" Merlin shouts back, feeling strangely light and energetic, his nerves tingling. "I'll fix everything. Oh, and don't open my door! I'll take care of that later."

* * *

The fight is even and heated and Arthur has gotten in a couple of well-aimed blows. But Valiant always raises his shield in time to protect himself, and after a moment of ill-considered movements, Arthur finds his sword twisted out of his hand. It's rare, being defeated, and it only spurs him on.

Then, suddenly, there's a rush of voices from the audience and people standing up in disbelief, shouting and muttering. Sir Valiant pales in panic and hisses at the two snakes that are now slithering  _out_  of the shield on his arm. The creatures do not listen to his orders however.

"Stop! I haven't summoned you!"

So Merlin  _was_  right then.

"Give up!" Arthur cries. "Your secret has been revealed."

"I might as well defeat you without hesitation then," Valiant says albeit Arthur is sure the man wouldn't have hesitated anyway. "Kill him!" the man yells at the snakes and they slither forward, their owner smugly watching.

"Arthur!" Morgana's voice reaches him from the sidelines and he raises his hand in reflect, grasping around the hilt of a sword. In one smooth movement he's sliced off both snake's heads – their long thin bodies fall back heavily on the sand where they twitch for a moment before stilling completely – and Valiant starts backing off in panic, but Arthur is quicker. The man fails to raise his shield in time. When the sword slides in between his ribs, the man looks more surprised than anything.

"It looks like I'll be going to the feast after all," he mutters into th dying man's ear, and the man makes a noise like a curse before he falls to the ground.

Gaius walks out from the edge of the field but knows he cannot save the man – not that the king would have allowed it either way. The knight just tried to kill his son using magic.

When Arthur turns toward the physician, he briefly spots a familiar red neckerchief under the glaring sun, and when walking out of the arena he makes sure to pass by that spot and pat the boy's shoulder. He doesn't say anything, but the way Merlin grins, he's sure the boy has gotten the message.

* * *

Later, Arthur is also somewhat relieved to see his manservant -  _former_  manservant - during the feast later that night, after a heavy meal and two cups of warm heady wine. The feeling is accompanied by something unfamiliar at the pit of his stomach and he pushes it away, as he approaches the boy, glad to get away from Morgana who so adamantly claims to have  _saved_  him while she definitely  _hadn't_.

"Did you hear that? Morgana claims she  _saved me_  – as if I ever needed any help."

Merlin raises an eyebrow at him, as if not at all agreeing with the Prince even though he should. Lacking propriety again. When will he ever learn?

Arthur shifts on his feet.

"I might have been a bit too …  _rash_ about sacking you earlier."

"You're  _apologizing_?" the boy exclaims and Arthur rolls his eyes at the tone and is glad his father is across the room and unable to hear this particular conversation. "Should I write this achievement down?"

"Not exactly. I'm rehiring you – anyway, it's easiest that way, since your being sacked hasn't reached the Chief of Staff yet. That good enough for you?"

"Well," the servant says. Slightly suspicious, like he does not entirely believe what he's hearing. "Hand me a drink and we're even."

Arthur splutters. "What? You're so thin and wiry; you'd probably be out under the table after two cups anyway. I don't want my servant making an idiot of himself right after I've proved that he's right."

The boy is staring at him now with large eyes and Arthur frankly finds it a bit unnerving. "Did you just … Was that some kind of  _compliment_  in that insult? Admit it, it was! You mean it, I was  _right_!"

"No, something must have gotten stuffed in your big ears and made you mishear," the prince cuts him off and walks away but swears he can see Merlin grinning like a fool from the corner of his eyes, and it makes him feel glad, in some inexplicable way, like it matters that Merlin's proud of him (and that he  _might_  be _a_ bit proud of the idiot in turn).

* * *

There's still a dog in his chambers to take care of.

Gaius suggests he'd try turning it back into a statue but when Merlin looks at the animal playing with a scrap piece of paper, waggling its tail and barking so happily, his chest feels heavy at the thought. He just can't bear stealing the life he's given it, even if it's just an  _illusion_  of life.

His mentor is vague about it when he asks what he meant by that: that only truly powerful sorcerers could  _create_  life, while you can trick the eye and the mind quite easily. The dog had never been fully alive and never would be, just like the snakes on the shield. Somehow, it was disappointing to hear, but also relieving. It meant a lot less to take care of for one, and if he'd really  _brought it to life_  ...

Merlin would have beenalarmedat wielding such power. He'd have panicked, wouldn't have known what to do.

The dog doesn't eat or need to answer any calls of nature, but on the other hand, it never sleeps and keeps them awake some whole nights, relentlessly wanting to play fetch. Gaius swears if they don't get rid of it soon the physician will drag it out and leave it in the forest himself. Merlin doesn't want that. In addition, he has a feeling the dog would probably find its way back to Camelot anyway, drawn by magic to the person who made it.

"It's kind of big and ferocious-looking," Merlin says thoughtfully and pets the thing behind the ears during breakfast next morning. "Don't you think I could put it among Arthur's hunting dogs? He's really good at finding stuff, at least when you ask nicely." That was true: it had found two old pair of boots of Gaius' and an ancient book the physician lost years ago (and nearly destroying the fragile book in the process but that's beside the point). "Would anyone notice?"

"I don't think it's able to breed, Merlin, and as soon as that's found out they'll deem the creature useless and have it killed," Gaius points out.

Merlin's face falls. "Oh."

"But you could always ask Prince Arthur, if you find it so important. Then at least we'd be rid of it."

"Well, yeah, it kind of is," Merlin bites his lip and glances at the dog who, oblivious what the conversation is about, wiggles its tail. "It needs a name …"

Gaius sighs. Merlin is so attached to the thing, if he put it in the forest now his ward might never forgive him.

* * *

"You're late.  _Again_ ," the Prince states as his servant enters his chambers, followed by a black furry thing, which causes Arthur's eyebrows to rise. "Why is there a dog following you?"

Merlin wrinkles his nose. "Gaius didn't want it in his rooms, said it took too much space."

"You're my servant, not that thing's babysitter. You certainly won't have time looking after it."

"Yes, I do! I can do two things at once I'll have you know. Sire," Merlin adds the last hoping that Arthur will be more reasonable if he pays the prince some proper respect for once.

"Why do I doubt that ability? Don't answer that question." Arthur gestures at the animal that's approaching to sniff at his feet curiously. "Whose dog is it, anyway?"

"Err, mine. I found it. In the forest. When gathering herbs for Gaius. It's probably run away and now it just won't leave," Merlin says hoping the prince will buy the lie. It's not that big a lie anyway, just a white one. He  _did_  find it, in a way, and no one seems to have reacted at the missing statue. "Beowulf is perfectly trained and well-mannered. But there's no place really I could keep him. It seemed a shame having to get rid of him …"

"'Beowulf'? What a stupid name. Well, I'm not surprised given it was you who named it."

Merlin glares at him. "It's not a stupid name! I think it suits him. Don't you think so, Beo?" he asks the black animal who barks happily and rubs his head against Merlin's knees in confirmation. "See? He likes it."

The Prince looks at the animal thoughtfully. Then, to Merlin's surprise (and relief), he says: "Seeing both you and Gaius has no time to care for it … Go down to the kennel and talk to the keeper. I want it examined to be part of my pack of hunting dogs – tell him it's the Prince's orders and he'll listen." The servant looks both happy and anxious, and the prince rolls his eyes. "Go on,  _Mer_ lin. You'll still be able to see the thing when we go out hunting and it'll be well taken care of."

The boy smiles gratefully and sends the dog a loving look that makes Arthur wonder whatever in the world the dog has done to earn it. It's just a  _dog,_ for heaven's sake.

"Thank you."

The Prince momentarily gives him a smile back, but then wipes it off his face; he can't have the servant think he's going  _soft_  or anything. "Fetch my laundered clothes while you're at it but keep your hands clean! I can't find my red jacket, the one with the studs."

 _Always the studs_ , Merlin thinks, and wonders if he maybe should magic some studs onto Arthur's other jackets so he won't have to run all-over the place looking for that red one all the time.


	7. Part 6: The Well [The Mark of Nimueh, part one]

**Part 6:**

# The Well

**_[The Mark of Nimueh, part one]_ **

* * *

One afternoon he's given the order to go down to the stables, where he finds Arthur waiting. The prince is wearing a pair of high boots, black gloves and that leather vest that he favors. There are several stable-hands milling about, and one of them walks up to Arthur, bows his head and gives him the reins of a large black horse which looks strong enough to be able to kick a man's head off.

The prince turns to his manservant. "Good, you're here. Grab a saddle and carry it out to the paddock. There's already a horse waiting for you there."

Merlin gives him a bewildered look, not blind to the glances of the other servants and staff present. It's not every day the Prince takes these matters into his own hands. A stable-boy could easily have taught Merlin, or someone else – royalty should have more important, if only personally important, things to attend to that see to a servant's riding education.

"What, now, sire?"

"Yes  _now_ , Merlin. You said you practically didn't know how to ride and I can't have a servant who's useless with a horse, especially since I've not hunted for weeks. Now hurry up, we don't have all day!"

* * *

The mare is calm, but alarmingly large for someone who's this unused to riding, and by the time the servant manages to get up in the saddle, Arthur is back to his impatient prattish self. They'd practiced taking on and off the saddle several times until Merlin got the hang of it –"You should be able to do it in your sleep!" as Arthur'd adamantly said.

A small crowd of stable-boys, servants and commoners otherwise not occupied have formed around the paddock when they get there and even if they don't linger too long, they still make Merlin uneasy, all of those curious eyes fixed upon him. He's suddenly very aware of how he's wearing his smallest shirt today since all others were too dirty to use, and can only hope no one will notice anything amiss, that no one will  _see_. Perhaps, though, they'll be distracted by him falling into the mud over and over again, as Merlin is certain that he'll do.

The Prince slings himself onto the back of his stallion with an ease and grace that makes Merlin scowl at him.  _Show-off_.

"See, it's not so hard."

"Maybe for you it isn't," Merlin grumbles under his breath and inhales, and holds his breath as he climbs into the saddle. By some miracle he manages to stay there, upright and clinging to the reins, knuckles white.

"See? Now, stop being so tense. It'll only make her nervous."

Gradually he manages to relax; it is strange sitting so high up from the ground, and the mare beneath him shifts and breathes. He really, really doesn't want to fall down from here, it's so far off the ground.

"We'll start with a slow trot around the paddock." The prince urges his stallion, Hengroen, forward and Merlin studies out of the corner of his eyes how he sort of follows the horse's movements, and tries to copy that.

He only ends up in the mud, as foreseen, Arthur twisting his torso to take a look at whatever made the sudden noise and bursting into loud laughter that's almost startling. Merlin can't recall the man ever laughing before.

There's a dull pain sneaking up his side. Merlin pulls himself up to his feet with a groan. "Ow."

The mare snorts and presses her muzzle against his face, like she too is amused by his fall. From above Arthur's voice is as impatient as ever.

"Come on, then,  _Mer_ lin."

"Must I really?  _Again_?" He stares at the mare who stares back like it's a competition. This is really not fair. No, not at all. "It's useless, I already know it is."

The prince, only using one rein, steers Hengroen up to Merlin's side. "Rome wasn't built in one day! You must have  _patience_."

"Oh, so you've heard of that word, have you, sire?" Merlin asks and is rewarded by a swat over the back of the head. But it was worth it.

* * *

When he returns home after another tiresome day (Arthur had been extra bothersome after that council meeting and his chamber had been a mess), he finds Gaius examining a body lying on the table with a piece of glass near his right eye – Merlin isn't quite sure what it's for, he's not seen such a thing before. The dead man's exposed skin is coldly white-blue, and the open unseeing eyes are the colour of fresh milk. The cheerfulness which the day has filled him – it was oddly nice being with Arthur and riding around even if he made such a fool out of himself, being so clumsy and with Arthur taunting every fall off the saddle - with sinks like water through sand.

"What happened to him?" Merlin exclaims, horrified. He drops the prince's armour in a corner with a clang, hurrying to his mentor's side. Polishing will have to be done later.

"I am not sure," Gaius says. "I've never encountered a sickness such as this before. And this is not the only case. I've seen three similar just this morning. Whatever it is, it's new and spreading fast."

Though the rational part of him tells him to stay away, Merlin curiously steps forward. "Is it some kind of plague?"

"It seems unlikely to me that such symptoms would be caused by a disease from nature." The physician shares a dark look with his ward, who understands immediately.

"Magic then," Merlin murmurs and glances at the door. It's tightly closed. "Should we tell…?"  _And have someone beheaded or burned at the stake?_  he adds quietly to himself, shuddering at the thought.  _But_ _ **why**_ _would someone use magic like that?_

Gaius shakes his head. "Not yet. I want to be sure. Telling too early would only cause panic."

* * *

It certainly doesn't help that over the next few hours, they find eight more sick in the castle. That's just the upper town; there might be many more in the lower town. And Gaius can find no cure, not yet; he can't tell what the sickness is.

Merlin knows little of medicine and Gaius strongly forbids him from using magic, it's far too dangerous, and he's never used it to heal somebody  _intentionally_  before. (There was this incident, when he was five, and his mother had cut up her hand by accident with the meat knife. At seeing the sharp red on the table and her skin, he'd cried out in panic and, without thinking, reached out for her and  _reacted_. She'd been too shocked by both the pain and the magic to yell, and then, when the wound closed without any scar, she was too thankful to be angry with him. She'd made him promise though not to speak of it again, like everything else – the command wasn't even necessary.)

Now, he can only stand there and watch helplessly as the people get even weaker and paler. They can do nothing but ease their passing and try lull them into calmness.

It happens so  _fast_.

He completely forgets that he's supposed to bring Arthur dinner and clean the fireplace and all other such duties and when night comes, he can't sleep with so much going on, and neither can Gaius.

* * *

"Where have you been? You didn't come back yesterday. My boots are still muddy from the ride," the prince asks, exasperated, when his servant enters his chamber the following morning, without any jolly 'Rise and shine' (a dreadful habit Merlin's developed, but he just won't listen to Arthur's orders to stop it). "And what's with the gloomy face?"

A plate is quietly put on the table.

The boy jerks his head stiffly at the prince's voice. "A woman just died this night in Gaius' chambers. He couldn't help her." The tone is flat, but Merlin's face and eyes speaks volumes: of pain and despair and something darker, more sinister.

Arthur frowns. Gaius is the finest physician he knows, but losing a patient isn't rare, unfortunately. There's so much no man knows and cannot cure, he's aware of that, so there's the possibility that the woman suffered a great deal. Somehow the thought of his servant, who's still quite young and rather frail-looking with those ridiculously thin wrists, aiding Gaius dealing with the dying makes him – not directly  _uneasy …_  but almost.

"Was she very ill?"

"Yes, some new kind of disease, Gaius said he's never encountered it before." But then Merlin gasps and clasps his hands over his mouth. He'd been told not to mention anything about that!

The prince's frown only deepens. What is his servant hiding? " _Merlin_ ," he says in a serious tone he's not used to days now, silently ordering the boy to explain himself.

"I – I was asked not to say. Not yet. Gaius feared people would panic," Merlin admits, lowering his hands. "He's never seen this sickness before … he's no idea how to cure it."

Arthur's following reaction is  _exactly_  what Merlin has been trying to avoid:

"My father should know of this."

* * *

When arriving to the hall Arthur finds a body stretched out on the stone floor, cold and unmoving, and Gaius is covering it with a rough white sheet. The prince stares at it aghast for a moment, recognizing the face before it disappears under the fabric as belonging to one of the councilors. The man isn't particularly old even, so that can't be the reason for his demise, and his face is unnaturally pale.

"Why didn't you report it to me?"

The King's voice booms across the hall. The large room relatively empty; there are only a handful of guards scattered about the room, lingering by all doors, silent and watchful, and three councilors are present, staring horror-struck at the now covered corpse. All servants have quickly been dismissed, perhaps to not stimulate any rumours (though it's already too late) - including Merlin, much to the warlock's exasperation. He wants to know what's being said, not ordered outside like a child! Gaius is always so vague and mightn't tell him everything afterwards. Maybe he could ask Arthur, but the Prince probably wouldn't tell just to annoy him, the prat.

Gaius bows his head in respect to the King. "I was attempting to find the cause."

"What did you conclude?"

"I do not think it's time to hurry to conclusions, sire," Gaius says indistinctly. "The scientific process is a long one."

The King's eyes narrow at the old man. "What are you concealing from me?"

Gaius gives in; lying to the King is dangerous, and he should be aware of the situation – even if the physician can tell already what the reaction will be. "Sire, I have seen nothing like it. The victims are dead or dying within a day and it's spreading fast. People of all ages with seemingly no contact with each other fall sick in all parts of town: I have seen over a dozen cases already, and fear that more are to come."

Uther frowns, as does Arthur; Merlin hadn't made it sound that bad and not said anything about so many being sick! "What is the cause?"

Gaius' voice darkens. "I believe the cause, the most  _likely_  cause, is sorcery."

The prince glances at his father; his face is dark. The King momentarily pulls his son aside, turning from Gaius who hasn't been dismissed yet. "We must find who did this."

"I will, father," Arthur replies dutifully.

"Conduct door to door searches. Increase your presence in the town. Double the guards on all the gates. And lend the physician your manservant."

"Merlin? But ... " The protest reaches Arthur's tongue before he thinks of it or can stop it, and it catches him off-guard, making him cut off the sentence before it can be finished. Why would he object? There are hundreds of other servants available to him and it's only temporary; and it's only logical Merlin is to aid Gaius, being his ward and assistant.

Luckily his father doesn't pay heed to the slight hesitation. "I'm going to need Gaius to find a cure. He needs all the help we can give him. If Gaius is right, believe me, this city will be wiped out. This is the kind of magic that undermines our authority, challenges all we've done. If we cannot control this plague, people will turn to magic for a cure. We have to find this sorcerer, and  _quickly_."

* * *

By evening, there are eight more dead and too many sick for them to fit in Gaius' chambers, so one of the smaller council chambers is cleared and made into a sick ward. Various servants are pulled from their ordinary duties to help care for the patients. It helps little, for while the sick may found bedding, food and something against the pain there, there's still no cure, no explanations for the disease and no pardon.

They only get worse, fading away like ghosts.

_If there was only some way …_

Every hour he has the time – very few hours, unfortunately, between helping Gaius and sleeping – he slips into his room and locks the door and pulls out his magic book. His eyes scan the pages in frenzy for a spell, a potion, something,  _anything_  that could provide a cure.

* * *

"The sickness will eradicate us out if we do not stop it  _now_ ," the King growls as he watches from the window, alongside his son, the square. There's a cart below, onto which bodies are being collected.

"We have found nothing yet, father, but we're extending our search," Arthur says, voice heavy. "But I fear that whoever did this have left the kingdom completely. They could be anywhere …" After a moment's pause he adds; "I'm sorry." The words are heavy on his tongue.

Uther turns stiffly from the scene, without speaking, cloak billowing behind him. The prince stares after him, feeling utterly useless. He's a warrior, a fighter. If there's an actual sorcerer to be dealt with, or if a monster attacks the city, Arthur would pick up his sword to fight it; he'd raise his voice if the people suffered, or if there was a situation of political nature to be dealt with. But this dark magic slipping into Camelot can't be fought with swords or words. Can't be fought with any power Arthur possesses.

He loathes admitting defeat, but they're fighting a losing battle.

* * *

"Tell me, what's different about this victim?"

"She, uhm," he looks at the personon the table, slightly uncomfortable. He can practically  _feel_  the cold radiating from the victim's skin, like poison making him want to step back. If concentrating he can also feel the fading dark magic that surrounds the body, from the spell that's done this to them.

"She's a woman?" he says uncertainly glancing up at his mentor.

His guardian raises an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. "Sometimes I wonder whether your gifts were given to the right person. Anything  _else_?"

"…She's a courtier."

"Very good! And what does that mean?"

Merlin struggles to come up with a reply. "That … that she hasn't spoken to any townspeople."

"Yes," the physician confirms, "it implies the disease probably isn't spread through human contact. Anything else?"

"Uhm, she doesn't eat the same thing as they do, or walk the same places. I doubt they even breathe the same air…"

"What's the one thing they  _do_  share then?"

"Wat-" His eyes widen. "Water!"

His mentor's words are an almost-praise. "Merlin, you are a  _prodigy_." A bucket is thrust into his hands. "Fetch me some water from the pump."

* * *

As fast as he can, he returns with a bucketful of water, so Gaius can examine it ( _how_  is beyond Merlin's comprehension though). He finds the door open, and inside there's a familiar voice, crying, and Merlin's heart skips a beat, nearly causing him to drop his burden.

_No!_

The woman is pleading to Gaius, who tries to soothe her, but looks so very tired, and there's no cure. No cure and nothing to hinder her tears. "Please, you have to help. My father is all I have! _Please_ , Gaius!"

"I am so sorry, Guinevere, but I so far a remedy is beyond what I can achieve."

"Please, I am  _begging_  you!"

The old man reaches out for her hand in attempt to comfort her. "I'm sorry, Gwen."

Sobs wrecking her body, she rushes out of the room, past Merlin, unable to meet his eyes. "Gwen!" he cries after her, but there's no response. He swirls around. "I have to help!"

"There is no way, Merlin."

"I could use my magic," Merlin says, "I could heal—"

"Heal her father? Maybe you could, but then what, if he miraculously recovers?" Gaius retorts. Merlin has rarely seen him this upset or angry, heard his tone this sharp. "People would assume there's either a cure and immediately demand it, or assume magic has been used." He straightens up, then picks up a small open vial and submerges it in the water from the bucket. Then, he places a small blue flower in it, though why Merlin isn't sure and right now he doesn't care. "No, we must wait until we find the answer through science. Patience is a virtue."

"Oh, so doing nothing is a virtue!" Merlin cries and throws out his arms in despair. He can't just sit around and wait and  _do nothing_. "I'll heal  _everyone_  with magic then!"

"Merlin," his guardian says, a protest or a warning or a combination of both, but Merlin pays no heed to it as he moves to fetch his magic book. It has to contain an answer and he  **will**  find it.

* * *

Bells toll between the walls of stone. Across town people sit in vigil by loved ones' bedsides, waiting for the inevitable. Over two dozen cold bodies fill the courtyard as the day darkens, and inside the Great Hall the King is pacing.

"Impose a curfew. No one is allowed on the streets after the bell rings," Uther says, "and seal the lower town."

"Why?" Arthur asks, for why would they do so? Then, they won't have access to the physician, even if there's little Gaius can do. Unwillingly, his thoughts wander to the struggling physician, and Merlin who's trying to help him. Merlin who's down there being exposed to the disease, to the dead bodies. The thought doesn't sit well with him, but he swallows the ashen taste on his tongue. Merlin's just a servant, and Arthur is the Prince of Camelot and should not be so concerned for his well-fare, not for such an unimportant individual especially during such a crisis.

"Because that's where most of the victims are," his father says, a frown marring his face. "I cannot allow this disease to spread any further; we must isolate it."

Yet Arthur speaks up before considering how his father would react at his words – odd, he's done so a lot more as of late, after Merlin stepped into his life; speaking up against his father, not always  _with_  him.

"But what about the people who live there?" he asks, aghast at the thought of simply abandoning them like that.

"Don't you think I haven't considered it?" Uther says sharply, and looks tired and worn. "What else can I do? I have to protect the rest of the city." And Arthur realizes that the King doesn't wish for this either. It's his city,  _his_   _people_ , as well. His responsibility. He must save what lives he can, but it comes at a cost … Always a cost.

Bitterness lingering on his tongue, Arthur bows and takes his leave, and begins to spread the new orders to the guards.

* * *

Night has fallen when Merlin sneaks out from the castle, down to where he knows Gwen lives: getting past the guarded gate to the lower town forces him to distract them with simple levitating magic, and his stomach knots with apprehension, but eventually he gets through unseen.

He has waited impatiently for his mentor to fall asleep, and by then it's late into the night, but if Gaius finds out about this he'll have his head. There's a risk Gaius will realize that some of his stored herbs have gone missing, but Merlin will deal with that later. If he's caught now, he'll definitely get thrown in the dungeons for breaking the curfew.

The streets are hauntingly empty save the occasional guard and he ducks behind carts and littered boxes to avoid being seen. Most windows are dark, the houses look gray and cold though he's sure families inside are huddling close anxiously waiting for dawn, fearing the disease to strike them as well. But there's a light, in Gwen's home, flickering weakly. Opening the locked door with magic, he finds his friend resting over her father's bedside.

The man is sickly pale with blue streaks across his skin, and his breathing is harsh. He doesn't have many hours left. Merlin takes a deep breath.

_This has to work._

There's no other option.

With a few whispered words he pushes magic into the object in his palm, the sack of carefully mixed together herbs reacting at the presence of the magic and starting to glow faintly. Gently, he lifts the pillow and places the object beneath the man's head.

There's no immediate reaction, but Merlin draws back into the shadows and lingers for just a moment. To make sure it's not a complete failure.

It takes just a few minutes before the man's eyes open, and they're not milky white but colourful and full of life, and his skin slowly begins to take its normal tan. Within moments his breath is no longer weak and he moves slightly causing the girl next to him to stir.

"…Gwen?"

"Father? You … you're all right!"

She envelopes the man in a tight embrace and nearly sobs with relief. "It's a miracle!"

* * *

When Merlin hurries home close to midnight, his footsteps are lighter than they've been for days.


	8. Part 7: The Coin [The Mark of Nimueh, part two]

**Part 7:**

# The Coin

**_[The Mark of Nimueh, part two]_ **

* * *

The following morning is bright and while Gaius is away to speak with the King about his latest findings, Merlin quickly takes a walk through the castle in search for Gwen. Eventually, he spots a familiar yellow dress in the corridor and smiles when seeing her face: Gwen is practically glowing with happiness.

"Hi, Gwen," he says as casually as he can. "How's your father? Is he getting any better?"

"It's incredible actually," she says with tears gleaming in her eyes, but not from grief but from joy, and she smiles wide at him: "He's – he's almost made a full recovery already. It's a miracle."

He's close to breaking out in laughter, relief flooding through him and dangerously near to bubbling to the surface. "That's great!" he says and then bites his lip, suddenly feeling guilty, wishing he'd healed  _everyone_ not just a single man – so many out there could have been saved. If somehow he could heal them all, magic or no, then …

Suddenly he finds that Gwen has stopped humming, giving him a curious glance. "How did you know he's getting better? You don't seem that surprised."

"I … just a feeling," he says quickly mentally berating himself for nearly spilling like that. "It's a miracle. I'm happy for you."

Before he can go, she stops him gently laying a hand on his elbow. Her hand is warm and soft, rather small but comforting. She squeezes once. Almost as if she knew, but of course she doesn't: and she  _can't_  know either, for the sake of them both.

"Thank you, Merlin."

"What for?" he asks, surprised. Gwen looks at him serious and sincere.

"You know … just for asking."

"That's what friends are for, right?"

* * *

Curious when the physician puts down the vial on the large council table, Arthur reaches out to pick it up. The substance looks to be only water, clear and plain; but inside it rests a completely white stem. He recognizes the species, it grows in abundance in the surrounding woods especially during spring; but now it looks as if the lilac flower has abruptly withered, entirely lifeless before his eyes.

"Don't touch it!" Gaius warns. "I've had this in water for just a few hours."

"Where is the water from?" the King asks, startled.

"The pump from which the people take their daily supply."

"Then we have to stop people from using it," Arthur says, but then comes the question:  _where from then will they get water?_  They need water above almost all else. Without water, the city's inhabitants soon will thirst to death. Without water no kingdom can function.

"We have to find this sorcerer!" Uther spits furiously.

Arthur turns toward him. "I don't believe their inside Camelot. If they once were they must now be long gone. We've started to extend the search but we cannot search the entire Kingdom."

"And I can't let this kingdom die," the King's reply is stern and Arthur nods, before leaving the room, a troubled feeling at the pit of his stomach. "I will not let magic crumble Camelot."

* * *

It's then Merlin hears of it; whispers in the corridors, between the servants, between the townsfolk, words that don't go unheard by the guards or knights. About the simple smith in the lower town who merely a day ago lay dying, and now is back working in full vigor. He's happy at first, relieved. But then he realizes what it means.

And finally Arthur finds out and quickly confronts him. "Did you know of this, Merlin, did you hear of it?"

"I – yes," he admits, since it's pointless to lie. "Gwen's my friend, of course I … I asked."

"You understand, don't you, what it means?" the Prince says next and there's something dark in his expression. Almost like regret. Merlin's eyes widen. "When one single man miraculously recovers, while so many others have died."

" _No_ ," Merlin gasps, horrified, because Gwen and her father are at risk now; what kind of friend is he to put them in that danger? He's such a stupid idiot! Arthur has listened to him before and he's proved to the Prince that he's right, and even if this time is a lie, he'll do anything to deter the Prince's suspicion from Gwen and her father. "I'm sure it's not…It's convenience, or luck, or – I don't know but it's not…it's not magic, it can't be. Arthur—"

Usually the Prince would scold him for using his name like that but now, Arthur isn't focused on it and doesn't berate him.

"There is no other answer, Merlin. I know it's difficult to accept if you two were … close," the Prince says it in an odd tone of voice but Merlin is too upset to think of it now. "But you must accept it."

Why can't the prat  _listen_  for once?

"No, you don't understand! They're  _innocent_!"

"Leave, Merlin. Go tend to your duties." Momentarily Arthur meets his eyes, stern and somber. "And for your own sake,  _stay out this_."

* * *

His protests fall on deaf ears and he's never felt so much anger at himself, nor as much despair, as when Gwen is dragged to the dungeons screaming and pleading and he can just stand back and watch.

* * *

It doesn't take long for Gaius to find out. When he does, he is furious. He pulls his ward to his chamber and shuts the door tightly, in case of anyone passing by. They should not be overheard.

"What were you  _thinking_?" the old man shouts.

"I – I wasn't thinking," Merlin admits. "It just seemed so  _simple_ ; I saved Gwen's father, I saved a  _life_. I couldn't let him die, he's the only family Gwen has and … I just couldn't let him die."

Gaius sighs. "An easy solution is like a light in a storm, Merlin – rush for it at your own peril for it might not always lead you to a safe harbour. What if you'd been caught?"

"It'd been better if I had been!" Merlin retorts angrily. "Then it wouldn't be Gwen being accused for sorcery and about to be burned at the stake!" Abruptly he draws away, a sudden fierceness to his steps as he walks toward the door. "It should be  **me** , not Gwen. She's innocent. She has nothing to do with this."

"And how are you going to prove that?"

The warlock wrenches the door open and rushes down the narrow stairs of the tower, ignoring his mentor's cry behind him.

"Merlin, wait!"

* * *

He has to see her first. Assure her it's going to be all right.

The chains are too short for Gwen to approach and touch the cell doors, so she stops half-way there, and she looks so miserable, so alone, tears lingering on her face.

"I'm sorry," Merlin says chest tightening,  _oh god what have I done? –_ "I'm so sorry."

She smiles at him weakly. "It's not your fault."

Hearing her say that so sincerely makes his heart break, he swallows harshly.  _Why_  did he do it? Why did he condemn her like this? He shouldn't have …! But then her father would have died, if he hadn't healed him and she'd still be in tears. Whatever he could have done, would have done, it doesn't matter now anyway; what's done is done.

"It's alright," she says, trying to sound strong. "Don't worry about me. There's no point crying about it. I mean...I mean, I'm not saying that you were going to cry about me. Obviously I don't think that."

"Oh, Gwen ... I can't have this happen."

"Please, one thing. You, you don't have to, but..."

"What?"

"Remember me."

"You're not going to die." He looks into her eye: a promise. "I'm not going to let this happen."

* * *

The council meeting has been gathered in a hurry. They are to discuss what to do, but Arthur already knows the conclusion they will come to: the sorceress – Arthur finds it difficult to believe, to grasp, since Guinevere so loyally has served Morgana all these years – must burn. She must burn and then they can only hope the curse on the water will be lifted.

She'd looked so fragile when forced to kneel on the stone before the King and his men, tears forming streaks down her face. While accusations and questions were flung at her, Arthur stood back, still struggling to grasp it. He is Prince and thus does not know the girl, or any other servant, but he knows Morgana thinks highly of her. That the maidservant is dear to her, even. Arresting her had felt like  _betraying_  his step-sister which was a new strange feeling, but it's eating at him and he can still feel Morgana's glares as if they've left scorch marks on his back.

But all evidence point toward Guinevere being guilty: her father's recovery, the poultice, the fact  _she_  is not sick … Arthur cannot turn a blind eye. The King cannot turn a blind eye.

(Arthur has this odd urge to ask Morgana what  _she_ would've done in his shoes, if he had this responsibility, but keeps his mouth shut; it'd only make things worse. He's not in the mood for another row with her.)

After the maidservant was dragged away, the lady hadn't hesitated to turn toward the King seething. And Arthur had found himself agreeing with her, with a conviction he's never before felt on the behalf of a condemned magic user.

" _She's right, father. As soon as you hear the word 'magic' you no longer listen!"_

That is not what you say to your King and father.

The meeting is heated. A solution is so very near and finally they might be pulled back from the brink and save the kingdom. But there's the ever-present worry: what if burning her won't stop the poison?

Then, when the King is in the middle of a sentence as he paces back and forth by the head of the table, the doors are flung open with a bang, and Arthur whips his head around and his jaw drops.

"It was me. I'm the sorcerer!" Merlin cries, hands out. "I used magic to cure Gwen's father."

Complete silence falls onto the hall. Arthur's throat suddenly feels thick. No. He can't be serious. The idiot simply cannot be. No. The boy doesn't stand there wringing his hands in nervousness, there's no sweat on his brow. His breath has quickened but he stares at the council in earnest. As if he truly means the words.

Arthur stands, gaining the attention of the men around the table. " _Merlin_ ," he growls, "you better have a good explanation for this."

"Gwen is not the sorcerer.  _I_  am!"

Is he mad? Is he truly  _out of his mind_? Hadn't Arthur warned him to stay out of it? Oh, of all the most stubborn creatures on this earth, Merlin has just proved he's the most idiotic of them all! Has he  _no sense_  of self-preservation whatsoever? Desperation shines through Merlin's face; he truly wants them to believe he's a magic user and that they have him arrested. The fool!

"I cannot let her die for me," Merlin continues, stoic and sounding slightly calmer now, and he turns to the King. "I place myself at your mercy."

Before his father can pass judgment upon the boy, Arthur intervenes. "This is a mistake, father. I apologize on the behalf of my manservant. He isn't very … isn't very bright."

"He has given himself up to his King," Uther says and beckons the guards by the door. "Arrest him."

"Father, please! I can't allow this! This is madness!" Arthur struggles to sound calm; fighting the frenzy inside him he can't place where it's come from. It's strange, normally he shouldn't act like this for a mere servant. Especially not one openly admitting they've used magic. But, there's just … something …

"There is  _no way_  that Merlin is a sorcerer."

The King glances at him sternly. "Did you not hear him? He admits it before his King."

In acknowledgment Arthur bows his head. "I did, father. But he saved my life, remember."

"Why then would he fabricate such a story?"

Merlin tries to step forward and say,  _'It's not a story; it's true,_ _ **I'm a warlock**_ _!'_

But Arthur is there before him. "I am afraid he has got a grave mental disease."

Already large eyes widen even more in disbelief. Maybe he should turn Arthur into a toad right now, Merlin thinks furiously, and then the council would have their proof, he'd show them right then and there that he's a sorcerer.  _Why_  is Arthur saying that? Why isn't he staring shocked or condemning him or calling for the guards, or, or …

The King raises an eyebrow, like not really surprised but slightly interested. "Really?"

As further explanation, the Prince adds; "Indeed. He's in love."

Merlin stares at him in utter disbelief. It takes a moment for him to find his voice. There are no guards, no cries of 'traitor' or 'sorcerer' or 'arrest him!', just Arthur acting so utterly bizarre.

"…W-what?"

"With Guinevere, the maidservant," the Prince clarifies and if he weren't so shocked at Arthur's behaviour Merlin would've seen the King's bemused grin and found it terrifying.

 _He's covering for me!_ Merlin's mind cries, startled: _Why on earth is he covering for_ _ **me**_ _?_ _ **Why**_ _would he …?_

He should be relieved, but he can't. If somehow Arthur manages to convince his father that he's innocent then they will return to blaming Gwen and then she'll  _die_  and it'll be his fault and now Arthur is trying to stop him.

"No," Merlin chokes. "I'm not - I'm not in love. I'm the sorcerer!"

Arthur gives him a pointed look. A bit like he sometimes does when dragging his servant to the training yard forcing him to wear that old leather armour and placing a dulled sword in his hand, when Merlin always would protest 'I'm not a swordsman, you prat, and will never be despite the number of times you try beating me into one'; then Arthur would say 'Of course not but I need some practice' and send him  _that_  look, the look meaning ' _listen to me now and stop complaining'._

"No, Merlin," Arthur says firmly. "You're in love with her. I've seen you two often enough, disregarding your duties for a moment together."

And the walks around the table to end up at Merlin's side and the warlock feels the heat radiate from him, standing so close, and the Prince's dark leather coat brushes briefly against his leg.

"No," he protests, again, warily following the Prince's movements with his eyes. "I'm not."

He's barely time to react when Arthur leans in and puts his arm around his shoulders and then, when he does, he can't pull away and everyone's  _staring_  and Arthur smells like musky smoke and freshly cut grass. The man's form presses against his side. For a moment he fears Arthur will notice it; that his body has shapes it shouldn't have beneath the loose-fitting tunic.

With his free hand, the Prince makes a sweeping gesture over the table and quirks a grin:

"It's all right. You can admit it."

Arthur's hand on his shoulder is distracting. It takes a moment for the words to form and leave his throat. "I, I don't even think of her like that…!"

 _You dollophead, what are you doing?_  he wants to scream;  _Stop hindering me! I'm going to_ _ **save her!**_

"Perhaps she cast a spell on the boy," the King says and Arthur casts a somewhat worried look at his father: being the victim of magic might not always give one leniency, no, it might be condemning as well. But then he sees his father's smile, and the council soon joins in chuckling and the air feels slightly less tense.

While speaking, he lets his gaze wander and his glare pins Merlin down like nailing him to the floor; the warlock stares back like a startled hare. "Merlin is a wonder, but the true wonder is that he's such an idiot. There's  _no way_  he's a sorcerer."

Uther waves a hand and Arthur realizes he still got an arm around his servant - he shouldn't have needed to hold him this long, in fact, he shouldn't have needed to touch him at all and abruptly he lets go, causing Merlin to stumble slightly like losing a point of balance.

"Don't waste my time again," the King orders sternly. "Let him go."

* * *

" _Arthur_  is the idiot," Merlin grumbles when his mentor, who is aghast at hearing what's happened, drags him back to his chambers.

"You should be thankful he did what he did. He saved you from your own stupidity."

"But they would set Gwen free! Don't you understand, if they'd arrested me –"

"- then," Gaius says, almost gently and very calmly, even though there's a storm in his eyes. He's still not forgiven him. "Then, Camelot would have lost you as well, Merlin, and no one would win anything. Gwen might not be set free, you might burn alongside one another. And I would lose you in the battle against this disease; I cannot let that happen."

"What do you mean?" the warlock asks. "Surely you can-"

"There's powerful magic at work here and I am flattered you think so highly of me, but this is far beyond my skills. I have found nothing. No solutions. Don't you see, Merlin? Jumping into the flames for her would not save her life in the end, only finding a cure will, for if we don't then the whole of Camelot will perish. We need an  _answer_  as to what is causing the poisoning of the water and how to solve it, and  _you_ , I believe, can provide it."

"With my magic," Merlin concludes, not heartened and worries his lower lip. But. Gwen, down in the dungeon, chained and crying. And Arthur firmly saying,  _Merlin can't possibly have magic_ and holding him prisoner with his gaze _._ If he finds the source of the dark magic, if he somehow eliminates it and cure the ill people – would that prove Gwen's innocence? Surely if the sickness disappears, the King and his men will think that she's not guilty and let her go?

"All right," he sighs at last and Gaius hefts his old worn bag of medical supplies, turning toward the door.

"The best place to start should be the water supply."

* * *

Down below the city it's dark and dank and quiet. It reminds of him of the dragon's cave.

"Take a sample," Gaius says and stands back while Merlin kneels by the edge of the water reservoir. The dripping of water is eerie in the echoing silence.

"Will that tell you what the disease is?" he asks his mentor.

"Perhaps. Mostly it might show the exact effects of the disease. Knowing the disease might help us stop it."

There's a noise, suddenly, the whooshing of water and  _something_  moves in the corner of his vision. Merlin recoils violently almost dropping the newly-filled glass vial. The shadow moves again, appearing straight in front of them just a few feet away from Merlin's face. It's there just a short while, too short to make out any details, but it lifts two arm-like limbs armed and  _roars_  before crashing back down into the water.

The silence is defeating until the warlock manages to move his tongue, still shaking with the shock:

"What the hell was  _that_?"

* * *

The book lands on the table with a thud and Gaius points at the open page: "Here, this was it. What we saw in the water was an afanc."

"A what?" Merlin asks, not recognizing the word.

"An afanc - a beast born of clay, conjured only by the most powerful of magic wielders."

"So that's causing the disease?" His mentor nods. "We have to destroy it! That has to be possible. It is - isn't it?" He glances worriedly at the physician.

"There might be answers in the old manuscripts, but I cannot recall ever reading of this beast before." His eyes sweep over the shelves; the heavy volumes from decades past, thousands of pages if not more.

Dread settles in at the bottom of his stomach. "But that might take days or  _weeks_  and by then, Gwen will be …" He can't say the words.

"Do you have any better ideas?"

Merlin bites his lip.  _Maybe_ ,  _if I try convincing it … but, it's always speaking in riddles, it'll never give me clear answers._ He glances at his mentor's upset face.  _But_   _I have to try._

* * *

"And so the great warlock returns, as I knew he would."

 _Can it foresee the future?_  Merlin wonders. Maybe it can. It's the only logical explanation. Despite constantly hiding its words in riddles, it has spoken of things that have come to pass. It's frightening almost to think of and he refocuses on the matter at hand; counseling his magic book had given no answers.

"I need to know how to defeat an Afanc."

"Yes, I suppose you do," the dragon says.

"Will you help me?"

"Trust the elements that are at your command."

"Elements? But what is it I have to  _do_?"

"You cannot do this alone. You are but one side of a coin. Arthur is the other."

Arthur? Does the dragon want him to fight the afanc alongside Arthur? But, he's useless with a sword or any other man-made weapon really, that would only mean he'd have to use magic. Use magic alongside Arthur, right in front of the Prince's eyes ...

No, the dragon can't mean that. Not yet. It's too early. Arthur  _can't_  know! He'd have him beheaded for sure!

"I - I don't understand," he stammers, and the dragon smirks.

"I think you do."

Apparently the dragon thinks it's already supplied enough of an answer, because its claws dig into the earth and then it takes a leap.

"No, wait!" Merlin rushes out to the ledge, waving the torch. "Please, you've got to help me! Tell me what to  _do_!"

"I already have, young warlock." The dragon laughs, deep chuckles of amusement that only darkens the cave, and then it's out of sight ignoring Merlin's furious shouting.

_Why is it always so bloody vague?!_

* * *

When coming back to his chamber Merlin doesn't hesitate, pulling out his magic book and starting to eye through it in desperation, and trying to answer Gaius' bombardment of questions simultaneously. "I need something on elements, a book, anything," he explains, vaguely avoiding the questions of  _why._

"Elements?" Gaius asks. "The four base elements is the very foundation of science. Fire, earth, wind and water. How did you figure this out?"

"Uh, it's part of my powers."

"What else do you powers tell you?"

"That, err, I'm one side of a coin," Merlin says and judging by the way his mentor looks at him this lie is balancing at the edge of what's plausible and what's insane. "The brighter side obviously. And ... and I think Arthur is the other."

" _Arthur_?"

Just that moment the door opens loudly, and the warlock gapes when the lady Morgana walks in – he's not actually seen her since the feast several weeks ago, unless you count the brief times he's spotted her and Gwen in the courtyard or other places of the castle, or even once at the town market. Now, distress mars her face.

"Gaius, they're bringing forward the execution. We have to prove Gwen's innocence!"

"Milady, please believe that we are trying."

"I believe you," she says with conviction, "but please, just tell me if there's  _anything_  I can do to help."

Merlin exchanges a look with his guardian, and Gaius briefly nods in accord.

"We need Arthur," Merlin says. Morgana doesn't seem upset at all that he completely forgets about proper manners and addressing her correctly. Instead she looks rather astonished at the mention of the King's son. "There's a monster," he continues to explain. "An afanc down in the reservoir, that's been poisoning the water."

"We must tell Uther, then," the lady says and Merlin's stomach twists: would the King allow his son to fight the monster with only a servant beside him?

"The afanc is a creature forged by magic," Gaius intervenes. "Telling Uther wouldn't save Gwen; he would simply blame her for conjuring it, no matter it demands a very powerful sorcerer indeed to make such a creature, more magic than the girl could ever possess."

Immediately her demeanor changes. "What do you need me to do?"

"If we kill it then the curse will lift and no one more should get sick. We need Arthur's help to defeat it. He's our best chance, but he wouldn't want to disobey the King …"

Merlin catches a slight smirk starting to form in the corners of the lady's mouth, and thinks that that is an expression anyone should fear, for their own sake; not only is she stunning, the lady is strong-willed as well. "Leave it to me."

* * *

Arthur doesn't even look up when she enters the room; he recognizes the click of her footsteps well enough. "You all right?"

He knew that Morgana and her maidservant had always been rather close. Certainly much closer than Arthur had ever been to any of his manservants. Then again, they were women, and such friendships were not as rare as they were within the world of men, it simply wasn't proper. Though it wasn't spoken of too loudly either; it was the best if Uther never found out just how dearly Morgana treasured her maidservant.

This accusation and dooming of Guinevere must be a hard blow for Morgana. She'd already protested loudly, more than once, against the King's sentence.

"Sorry about the mess," he adds, gesturing at the room which is indeed a mess. The bed hasn't been made, the trays from breakfast haven't been taken back to the kitchen, and he's carelessly thrown his outer coat onto the back of a chair instead of putting it in the wardrobe. Despite his manservant's absence he's not asked for a replacement, even if temporary, because despite being busy aiding Gaius Merlin would sometimes come by to do a small chore, just some general tidying up of the room. But not today. Not since the announcement of Guinevere's arrest. "Merlin's not been in today."

"Poor Merlin," Morgana says, stepping further into the room.

"Yeah," Arthur says shortly and moves away from the fireplace, into which he's been staring emptily.

During the last few days he has felt …  _restless_ , finding little to do. In the face of this threat, this illness, there's  _nothing_  he can do. No sword can counter it. The council meetings he's been forced to attend have been dire and stressful. Training with the knights hadn't helped him get rid of this feeling. He's also sensed his knights' uneasiness: they have loved ones they are worried for and a few had family members who have already fallen victims to the illness.

The feeling doesn't lift when he finds out that Edward, a young but aspirating squire, recently has fallen ill as well and now is resting in Gaius' quarters. But there's nothing to be done for him or any other victims. Nothing. This helplessness that has crept up and gripped the whole city is now slowly eating him away and he absolutely  _loathes_  it - not being able to take action. Not being able to _do_  something.

"To offer his to give up his life to save Gwen …" Morgana continues airily. "I certainly cannot imagine any man loving me so much."

"No, I certainly cannot imagine that either," the Prince replies without pausing to think and his step-sister smirks, knowing him far too well.

"That's because you're not like him. Merlin is a lover."

Something in Arthur's stomach twists. "Maybe that's because I haven't found the right person to love."

The lady goes on, casually almost, but her gaze tells him all; "Sadly the age of gallantry seems to be dead. You look around and all you see are small men, not big enough to full their armour. There's not one of them that's able to stand up for what is right."

The Prince sets his jaw, and reaches for his sword before she's even finished speaking. "What needs to be done?"

* * *

Merlin is both astounded and relieved to see the Prince marching across the courtyard with intent in each step, closely followed by lady Morgana, who looks both smugly pleased and, to the trained eye, apprehensive. The warlock holds tightly onto the keys to the water reservoir which the physician has given him.

When coming up Arthur glances at him and Merlin looks back; a quiet exchange without words. He's still learning to read and know the Prince so he's not certain if he's still angry at him (or even if he was truly angry before or simply just annoyed at his manservant's interruption of the council meeting and announcing he's a sorcerer) - but there are no reprimands.

Without word the Prince takes up the lead and only speaks once they've entered the sloping corridor down to the water supply, torch in hand.

"You should stay here," he says, directing the words to the King's ward. "The afanc is a dangerous creature. Father will slam us both in chains if he knew I'd endangered you."

"I'm coming, no arguments. Or are you scared I'll show you up?" Morgana answers and smirks, and stalks past him head held high, proudly like a ferocious cat. Right before she's got her back to him, Merlin thinks he flashes the glimpse of steel in her hand, and somehow he's not even surprised. If lady Morgana had been born male, she'd undoubtedly been a warrior, a knight.

But when thinking that, he can't help but think of himself and his strange body and how it'd be if it wasn't like this, half-way woman half-way man. If he'd not been born like this, if he'd been born normal, would he still act like he does now? Would he recognize himself? Or would he be someone else entirely?

The possibility makes him feel uncomfortable, out of his skin, and he forces the thought away for now.

Merlin is somewhat taken aback when Arthur turns toward him instead of following Morgana and stopping her, dragging her out of the cave. No, he lets her be (as if knowing trying to tame her would only result in major wounds on his part). "You should stay here –"

"What?" he exclaims. "No, I'm coming with you!"

"You're just a  _servant_ , Merlin, you're useless with a sword. In fact you don't even have one and you'll only be in the way, even more than Morgana."

"I'm coming with you. Whether you like it or not," Merlin says stubbornly. _I_ _ **need**_ _to be with you, you prat, otherwise you'll never defeat the afanc!_ he wants to say but doesn't because Arthur would never believe something so ridiculous.

"Fine, then. But if you get killed because of this foolish decision of yours, I am not taking responsibility," the Prince says, eventually, and stiffly turns his back to him to follow Morgana downwards. But he lets the servant come. Maybe he thinks Merlin will cower at the sight of the beast and run away or something. If only he could tell him about his magic without getting beheaded – and still be taken seriously – then he'd show the prat!

"You better be right about the afanc," Arthur adds over his shoulder; "if there isn't one, I'm sending you to the stocks without ado. Understood?"

"Yes, sire," Merlin replies, exhaling. "I'll be looking forward to it."

* * *

They descend.

A growl echoes in the darkness, followed by silence, heavy and wet.

"… Damn it, you were  _right_ ," Arthur mutters and glances at Merlin but the servant is too worried about how to actually kill the monster and about Gwen who still hasn't been set free, to smile in smugness and call the Prince a prat.

"I just we hope find it before it finds us," Merlin murmurs quietly.

A crossroad is before them; it's a maze down here, a reason why it's so dangerous, why Arthur would feel more comfortable with Morgana and Merlin up on the surface while he battles the afanc … whatever kind of monster it is. There's a reason he's not called upon his father or his knights yet: were they to hear of this, especially the King, their blame on Guinevere would only be reinforced. They would only think she conjured the beast, while both Morgana and Merlin so adamantly claim she's innocent.

If those two just knew their place! Then they'd have avoided this mess.  _And the pyre would burn by this evening,_  he reminds himself, and grips his sword tighter. This is not the time to reflect on propriety.

Merlin's voice is very close, without him realizing how the servant got there. "It's on the left!"

Something flickers in the corner of his eye.

Then, Morgana screams.

Another deep, inhuman growl vibrates through the dark and the torch in Arthur's hand flickers. The beast materializes out of the shadows, leaping forward; the lady stumbles back, and Merlin in another direction, pressed up against a wall.

It's a hideous thing, with muddy,  _dripping_  skin almost like it's constantly melting and re-forming, yet still a distinguishable physical shape. It's twice the size of a man, perhaps larger even with its back hunched. The Prince stays firmly rooted to the ground and draws his sword, swinging it at the beast to no avail. It's quick, avoiding him.

It starts moving toward the right entrance, which leads straight to the main body of water. He can't let it go there and disappear now when it's so  _close_. Refueled by determination Arthur lunges forward, letting forth a battle-cry.

* * *

Elements. That's what the dragon had said wasn't it? Clay … Earth and water.

Two of the four elements.

_Trust the elements that are at your command._

When he realizes, the beast right in front of them it's almost laughable how  _simple_  the riddle's been. To counter two of the four elements, he must use the other two!

Fire - and  _wind_.

The door behind them is closed, there's nowhere from which air can flow on its own, and it means he has to use magic but it'll save Camelot, and Gwen will be freed, even if he has to use it right in front of Morgana and the Prince.

Power rises within him without effort, and gold reaches his irises.

"Arthur!" he shouts. "Use the torch!"

Suddenly, Merlin's rushing forward and screaming, and Arthur nearly yells at him for being such an utter  _fool_ ; the beast is turning around now searching for the source of the noise.

A cold gust of wind ripples between the stone walls and clashes with the fire burning steady on the torch, making it grow rapidly and envelop the afanc. The creature lets out a terrible screech as the flames swallows it, and then it begins to melt for real. Within seconds, there's but a tiny pile of ashen dirt that quickly disperses in the fading wind, before settling in the old corners of the cave.

For a moment Merlin stands there staring at what he's done, partly proud at the achievement and partly petrified. Because Arthur is staring at the same spot where the flames had just been, breathing heavily, sword still brandished. For a long moment Merlin doesn't dare to move or breathe, just staring at the man hoping,  _hoping_  the magic has gone unnoticed and that the Prince won't turn to him suspiciously.

"… That's the weirdest sort of luck I've had so far," the man mutters. "Where did that wind come from anyway?"

Morgana regains her speech and Merlin manages to breathe again; having to make a cover-up lie right now would cause the Prince to see right through him for sure.

"Maybe the door was opened by it and it carried down here," says the lady, oblivious to what really has just occurred, and Arthur agrees with a nod and they do not speak of it any more. Merlin unlatches himself from the wall and together, they start making their way out of the cave system.

What's left now is to tell the King and wait, and hope for the disease to fade.

* * *

It does.

Uther is furious. At least, that's what Merlin thinks he is, when he flashes the man's face as he orders to have a private word with Arthur and Morgana, and Merlin is forced to back out of the hall along with all other servants.

Gaius, after another berating round, pulls him into a hug, and Merlin squirms just the first few seconds but the old man doesn't seem to notice anything amiss. Then he can relax and bask in the pride the defeat of the afanc has given him. Once he's let go, Gaius holds him at arm's length and says, sternly, "I am very proud of you, Merlin. But please, do not do anything this rash again."

"I'll try."

* * *

A few hours later, it is announced that Gwen has been found not guilty - albeit Gaius is vague on the details on  _how_  exactly he managed to persuade the King that she didn't conjure the afanc - and she is let out of the dungeons. Merlin, along with her father Tom, is there to greet her. For some reason lady Morgana is there as well and she stands out like a sore thumb down in the dark dungeons, with her fine dress and fair skin; the guards give her wide berth.

Gwen seems to be in a daze.

"Oh, my child," the smith breathes as he embraces his daughter firmly.

"Thank you, thank you." Gwen sounds breathless and courtesies to Morgana, and her father bows to the lady as well in endless gratitude; but the lady has a strange expression on her face as she stops the maid, shaking her head.

"No, do not thank me. It is Merlin who should be thanked. He is the real hero here."

Merlin's jaw drops.  _Did lady Morgana just…?_

Then he finds himself caught by Gwen's arms and his train of thought is interrupted – she's surprisingly strong, perhaps because she's a smith's daughter – and the girl is speaking rapidly, thanking him over and over. After a moment, she unwraps him, embarrassed and a bit awkward, as if aware of the lady and her father and all of the guards looking at them. "Oh, I just – sorry," she mutters, "I…Thank you, Merlin."

"It's all right," Merlin smiles, "I'm glad to help."

Tom shakes his hand, and compared to his grip Gwen's hug was nothing. "You saved my daughter's life - I am eternally grateful."

* * *

He doesn't see Arthur until next day when bringing him breakfast. The man is rather quiet. Whatever discussion he's had with his father, it had not gone very well.

"…Is he very angry?" Merlin asks carefully. He'd foreseen this would happen and therefore decided to bring honeyed bread; usually he won't bring Arthur such a treat, the prat is so spoiled he cannot deserve it, but now he needs to be cheered up or he'll take out his frustration on the knights on training later today.

Most of the time, Arthur never speaks of personal things like these, so Merlin is pleasantly surprised when the Prince opens up right away.

"It's about Morgana," Arthur admits and grimaces. "I should never have let here come with me, put her in that danger. Of course he's furious with me!" Then he deflates somewhat. "He's … disappointed that I did not consider her safety more. Or my own, for that part; he wishes I had alerted the guards, and more importantly, him, before going down to face the afanc."

"But you did it for good cause," Merlin points out while handing the Prince the bread. "The disease is gone and Gwen's free."

The Prince sends him an odd look, brows still furrowed, and Merlin finds it difficult to tell  _what_  exactly is bothering Arthur about that statement. The man open his mouth to speak, then pauses; whatever retort that was on his tongue melts away and he grunts something about boots needing polishing and proceeds to throw one of said offending items at the servant's head.

Merlin grins anyway. He'll make Arthur realize yet that he can be a great Prince without having to be a prat.


	9. Part 8: One Without the Other [The Poisoned Chalice, part one]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I've used some Old English here that's not (completely) canon. 'Fylst' means "help/aid". 'Leoth' means "light" – I used part of a spell used in the series, namely 1.09 Exalibur ('leohtbora' = "light-bearer"). I found some alternative spelling but decided to go with this, but I'm certainly not an expert, so all flaws are mine. I don't want to go quoting every spell in the series (in 1.04 Merlin mumbles a whole lot of them!) if I could help it so you might find some of them missing or simply not being quoted. If canon spells appear I won't translate them, since they're easily found online. To be honest I find it more awesome when Merlin uses magic without spells._

**Part 8:**

# One Without the Other

**_[The Poisoned Chalice, part one]_ **

* * *

Prince Arthur's earliest memory of Bayard of Mercia is from when he was old enough to reach about his father's knees, when Bayard wasn't yet King but had been sent by his aging father in attempt to clear the hostile air between the two kingdoms. Unfortunately it had not helped much.

For a year or so after that, there'd been no direct attacks from either side, but disrupted patrols were a regular thing. Arthur had grown up knowing Camelot had more enemies than allies. His father has always reminded him of the importance of strength – strength and control on the inside, so that you can take control of the outside as well. Allies are important and one should always seek peace first, not war, or else the kingdom will crumble. And this is a momentous step ahead, toward that goal: never before have all the leaders of the Five Kingdoms come to meet in this way, for talks of  _peace_. Besides King Bayard of Mercia, also other Kings with smaller kingdoms shall come; or at least their ambassadors. King Cenred of Estecia has not been in Camelot in person ever, and this time is no exception.

His manservant however, still bumbles about obviously not knowing of the importance of such a moment (honestly, if he  _ever_  can get the boy to address him properly…!). And he's late – again.

Arthur isn't surprised the least.

" _Mer_ lin," he complains when the boy finally decides to make his appearance, practically crashing through the door, and then frowns at the askew neckerchief. "What took you?"

"Breakfast," Merlin gasps, huffing for breath between the words; "Ran - all the way - from the kitchens. You've noticed the stairs? There are a  _lot_  of them. Stairs. 's kind of impractical."

A tray is placed on the table. Arthur has noticed a sharp difference between the service of his last servant and Merlin: there's never wine presented to any meal, except some dinners when the servant apparently deems it appropriate (much to Arthur's annoyance he finds this has to do with how he's "behaved" on that particular day, how many times he's called the boy an idiot and particularly if he's ordered the stables to be mucked out). There's water or mead instead. And there's fruit, apples mostly, next to the venison or other piece of meat Arthur requires. He's confronted him about it of course, but then Merlin said something about wine dulling the mind and the body, and Arthur somehow took to heart in a way he hasn't a servant's words before. It doesn't stop him from drinking wine completely – of course not! He's not some dainty lady - but he's no longer surprised at the lack of it.

"I can see that. We need to work on your fitness."

"I'm perfectly fit!" Merlin protests.

"Sir Bedivere is stronger than you and  _he_  fights like a girl."

Momentarily Merlin's face adorns a curious expression that makes the Prince wonder what he's thinking (that is, if the boy is capable of any kind of commonsensical thoughts), but then the boy clears his throat and he dismisses it as nothing.

"Doesn't that discourage them?" Merlin says and moves toward the bed to make it. "Your knights, I mean. That you say things like that about them."

The Prince rolls his eyes: his manservant is clearly exaggerating. "He's new and needs to learn his place. Didn't you see him at training yesterday?"

Merlin had seen. The man had tried to push a passing by servant into the mud, since the servant was running other errands and was unable to fetch the knight water. There'd been some cans nearby actually, but Merlin thinks the knight just wanted an excuse to show off his newly acquired power and status, and the servant had been unable to protest, ready to get walked over like a doormat. But Arthur had jumped in between and Merlin had gained a new level of appreciation for the Prince; he may act a lot like a dollophead, but on the inside he might actually be not that bad.

Possibly.

 _Maybe_.

"Anyway," Arthur says, "you can get my laundry done now and hurry back here. The reception of King Bayard is in two candle-marks."

* * *

It takes two trips to get all of the prince's dirty clothes to the laundress. It's a bit annoying, but the first week Merlin hadn't even realized there  _was_  a laundress and thus had done it all by himself (he might have used a tiny bit of magic) and that took twice as long.

Actually it'd taken a couple of weeks to get to know all the nooks of the castle, where the stables were and the fastest shortcuts between the kitchens and Arthur's rooms. (He still didn't know all of those, naturally). It'd also taken a while to figure out the routines – when to get the prince his food, and from where and whom, and whom to ask the questions.

A lot of the other servants weren't that fond of him at first. Some still aren't (and some probably never will be); after all, being the prince's manservant is seen as an honour. A place you work hard to get. And Merlin had just waltzed into Camelot and saved the prince's life and here he's now, without any prior experience or having worked his way up.

Gaius had informed him that his position actually gives him the right to order around other, lower servants. Apparently the last manservant, Morris, used that privilege to his advantage when Arthur was having his moods and ordered a lot more than usual to be done. It was the only way to get all chores done in time.

Merlin is a bit skeptical to use that privilege yet. He's a newcomer so there's a guarantee he'll actually be listened to, especially by older servants who've been here for awhile. And it's one thing asking for help, another to  _order_  it. In Ealdor, things were so different…

Anyway, he's got his magic. In time of crisis he could always use it (and hide quickly, to avoid Gaius' eyebrow of disapproval).

One person he dares as for help though is Gwen, who is endlessly sweet and kind and selfless. She doesn't see his asking like orders. She's also the one who's shown him a lot of Camelot, so he's immensely grateful for her being there. After saving her life (with the help of Arthur and Morgana and Gaius – without them he wouldn't have been able to do it, but she still adamantly thanks him even if he doesn't deserve it) she's been even more helpful, always asking if there's anything she can do. He feels somewhat ashamed actually, about that. Simply getting her name cleared was an uphill battle, and people still glances at her in the market, and though she doesn't speak of it much Gwen is still worried about her father's business being affected by the rather recent events.

(He wonders, not without shame or worry, if she would be as thankful if she knew that  _he_  was the reason she ended up in those dark dungeons with the sentence of execution hanging over her head.)

* * *

Sometime later, Merlin arrives to the prince's chambers to find the man dressed in newly polished boots and that favourite jacket of his. He's somehow relieved that he's not helping Arthur to actually  _dress_  unless it's his armour or the occasional coat. At least, not yet, even if he supposes it's inevitable. The baths, however, cannot be avoided. The very thought of seeing Arthur completely naked makes him feel … strange, and he averts his eyes constantly in such situations. The Prince has no problem baring himself in his chambers: the first time the Prince ordered a bath and then had him  _stay_  during it, Merlin hadn't been able to look him in the face for the rest of the week. Arthur probably thinks he's either shy or just odd as usual; he's been called an idiot enough to be reminded.

"Good, you're back. You need to prepare for the reception of King Bayard's company, and the feast tonight."

Merlin regards him wide-eyed. "I'm going to be at the banquet?"

"You're going to be there making sure by cup doesn't run dry," Arthur clarifies and ignores his servant's spluttering. "Speaking of which, you'll have to wear the  _official_   _livery_  of the Prince's Manservant."

Merlin looks absolutely horrified when Arthur presents him the clothing. The Prince won't let him get away, though. He will need some entertaining tonight, during all those boring speeches.

"… _Please_  tell me you're not serious."

* * *

Thankfully he won't have to wear that ridiculous clothing just yet. When telling his mentor of it, the old man just laughed, which was completely unfair.

The company from Mercia is large, consistent of some five dozen people at least, all clad in various shades of blue, while those of Camelot have clad in red and gold. There are servants, courtiers, knights and of course King Bayard himself. The man is tall and broad-shouldered and stern-looking, but there's no shadow over his face like there is over Uther's. The two Kings stands face to face stiffly. Arthur stand next to his father, his manservant half a step behind the prince, and there are two dozen of their finest knights there too, long blood-red cloaks draped over their shoulders.

But then the tense air is eased as the two Kings shake hands and Uther says, "Welcome, King Bayard of Mercia. It is an honour to have you here at Camelot."

"I thank you, Uther Pendragon. It is an honour to be welcomed. I look forward to the, hopefully agreeable, talks that we shall have here," replies the other King, and the people in the hall exhale in relief as one.

* * *

Right after the reception, the physician just finds out he's out of some important supplies and as his dogsbody(he truly loathes that word) Merlin of course must get him some from the apothecary.

So he has to rush there and get back and help preparing for the feast, and bathe and dress in that awful clothing, and still he hasn't swept the fireplace in Arthur's room which the prince already has reminded him five or so times today in displeased grunts. Merlin is  _not_  happy.

Abruptly his train of thoughts of taking revenge on the prat for having him wear that stupid hat is interrupted when a body collides with his, and he winces, involuntarily stepping back as quickly as possible before the person could feel the outline of his body.

Quickly Merlin tries to help the person to their feet. It's a young woman in blue: one of Bayard's servants, rather pretty with her hair hidden beneath a bun of blue and red. The things she'd carried have fallen to the floor.

"I'm sorry! Are you all right?" he exclaims and starts picking up the pieces of cloths that she's dropped.

He notices something then about her. It's familiar yet not, like he's seen something similar not long ago.  _A web_ … But then, it's gone, like he's blinked and a veil has covered his eyes, and he thinks nothing more of it.

The girl stands. Her eyes are very blue and she's very pretty, smiling at him gratefully. "It was my fault," she says and hold out her arms, and Merlin startles when realizing she's waiting for him to hand over the folded cloths. "Thank you."

"Wait! What's, what's your name?" he asks.  _I really should hurry. I'm already late._

"Kara. Aren't you Prince Arthur's manservant?"

"Yeah…I'm Merlin," he says and grins.

"What an honour, serving the Crown Prince himself!"

"Yeah, well, somebody's got to keep the place running," he mutters ears turning red.

She laughs slightly, it's a very pretty laugh and then she thanks him again and walks away. He can't hinder himself from looking after her. At that point he should notice there's something off, but he doesn't and moves on as if there's nothing strange about it.

* * *

The feast is almost painful. To his feet, for as a servant he mustn't sit down for a second, and his pride, because of that stupid feathery hat. Throughout the speeches Arthur keeps glancing over his shoulder at him and flashing a grin like a fool, and Merlin glares back at him. He notices the looks of the other servants. They're not wearing feathery hats or hats of any kind and he envies so them badly, wishing he could take off the thing. Is the prince's goal here in life to humiliate him?

Somehow though, he survives through the speeches – long ones, mind – and the royals take seat. Food is starting to be brought forward and in the sudden liveliness among the servants, Merlin slips the hat off, placing it discretely under a table in a corner. Gwen is standing there, waiting for her mistress' word, and the girl smiles amusedly at him. Merlin smiles back, feeling a bit better already.

Someone tugs on his arm and he turns around, eyes widening when he sees her. "Kara? What is it?"

The girl looks distressed. "Come with me, please, Merlin." Her hand on his arm lingers, and he glances at the hall. The lords and ladies are conversing and laughing and singing, and Arthur is in a deep discussion with sir Leon. His goblet is newly filled, so he won't need him for awhile.

Merlin lets her lead him out of the hall through a back-door, into an alcove.

"What is it? What's wrong?" he asks, again.

"It's … I shouldn't tell," she says and hesitates. "I'll be in trouble."

Something is clearly wrong. "Please, tell me."

There it is again: the web, a red hue wrapped around her wrists, but he blinks and it's gone again and he finds himself unable to concentrate on it – anyway, it doesn't matter. Kara grips his sleeve, anxious and he looks at her and  _begs_  her to tell what's wrong, so that he can help – do something – anything.

"I never meant to see! I was just changing the linen, and I knew I shouldn't interrupt master Bayard but - oh, I wasn't meant to see…!"

" _What_  hadn't you meant to see? I promise, you won't be harmed, nobody will know you told me," Merlin swears.

The woman's face grows somber. "Bayard doesn't come for peace. The goblets he means to give the King and Prince Pendragon … one of them is poisoned, Prince Arthur's goblet. I saw it. He put something in it, I'm certain, and if he drinks it …"

Merlin's eyes go wide.

 _Arthur_!

* * *

It's in the middle of King Bayard's speech that the servant bursts into the hall, nearly knocking over one of the attending servants, who is holding the beautifully adorned box from which the king of Mercia just has picked up two goblets and filled them. Arthur has put his just to his lips when a voice cuts through the air:

"Stop!  **Don't drink it**!"

 _The idiot cannot be serious,_  Arthur thinks. But Merlin  _is_  serious and wide-eyed and tears the filled goblet out of the prince's hand.

"It's poisoned."

At the announcement everyone flies from their seat and draws weapons, guards of Camelot pointing theirs at those of Mercia, or toward Merlin, who stands in the centre of the hall completely calm. Like he's expected it all. King Uther looks dismayed; King Bayard shocked. Arthur admits to himself it was mistake not bringing his sword, just a knife attached to his belt. If a fight breaks out it'll be no match to a Mercian sword.

 _What is the fool_ _**doing**_ _?_

"This is a mistake. Merlin," Arthur says in a firm voice. "Hand me the goblet and apologize immediately."

The servant refuses, shaking his head and grasping the goblet with both hands. "It's poison. I can prove it."

"No, it is  _not_  poisoned. Hand. Me. The goblet."

The guards stand ready to arrest the boy or whoever else responsible when Uther raises a hand and speaks: "Prove it then, boy. Either the liquid  _is_  poisoned…" Everyone tense, accusing eyes falling onto King Bayard and his company. "Or it is not, and you are free, King Bayard, to do as you will with the boy." The deciding is met by a slight nod from the other King.

"Father, this is a mistake," Arthur says, trying to sound calm despite his rapid pulse. If it is poisoned –  _how could Merlin know? Why would he suspect it_? – if it is, then Merlin would … "I'll drink it."

"No! No. It's all right," Merlin says suddenly sounding quite calm and gives him a tiny smile. And bowing his head in respect at the Prince, not the King, like a salute, the servant raises the goblet to his lips and drinks.

At first there's nothing, no reaction to anything unusual and Arthur breathes out.  _It's all right._ He takes a step forward, ready to openly apologize to King Bayard for this grave mistake and horrid accusation – and to plead that he, Arthur, is to make sure Merlin's punished accordingly for his insolence, because he's seen servants punished in the past. He's seen their blood drain on the cobblestones, their bodies too weak to stand, and by the gods, he doesn't want to think of Merlin in that place, surrounded by Mercian guards.

But, then.

Merlin's breath hitches and he clenches at his throat. His knees crumbles beneath him and heavily he falls to the floor and the emptied goblet rolls away with a clatter from the suddenly relaxed hand.

Before Arthur manages to form a comprehensible thought, he finds himself – it's like a dream, detached and unreal – kneeling beside the body on the stone floor. His eyes are lidded and limbs unmoving, but there's yet breath in the boy.

"Arrest them!" King Uther cries, and King Bayard's jaw is set when he and his entourage are led past the Prince of Camelot, dignity still intact, from the hall, down into the dungeon.

Arthur doesn't hear or see it. His eyes are fixed on Merlin's rising and falling chest and the pale face and the feel of his dropping pulse as he presses his fingers to the servant's neck. There's heartbeat, but it's weak.

From the chaos behind him Gaius drops onto his knees next to his ward, and Morgana's maidservant is there too. "Merlin?" the physician gasps. There's no response.

"He needs to get to my chambers. I cannot treat him here."

The prince doesn't hesitate, picking the servant up like he weights no more than a child and carrying him out of the hall.

* * *

He lets the poison take him, knowing he's saved Arthur. That it's not been in vain. Even if he might die. The thought should scare him, but somehow, it doesn't. If he saves Arthur, at least he'll have done something good. Done something. Been important.

Darkness wraps around him, but he thinks he sees there's a face above him before that, strained with worry, blue eyes fixed on his own. It's too short and all too blurry to determine, and then he loses sense of his body altogether.

* * *

The prince paces furiously up and down the room.

"How long does he have?"

"Four days at the most. Maybe less, but certainly no more."

Arthur swirls to look at him aghast. "And what about a cure? Surely you  _can_  cure him, Gaius!"

"There's only one antidote, but I need the very same flower that the leaf belongs to, the Morteus flower. It can only be found in the caves of Balor." There's a rough map next to the text and the physician draws a trail across it. "It's a dangerous journey going there, sire. Very few have returned from that place and been able to tell about it afterwards."

He glances at the servant, unmoving and pale under the blanket. Four days  _– he's so young._  Four days –  _will it be time enough?_  Four days –  _Merlin doesn't deserve to die, he doesn't deserve to end this way._

It has to be enough.

* * *

It's so dark … so dark. It wraps around him like a blanket and clenching at his throat and there's nothing to see, no matter how hard he tries opening his eyes – it just won't work. He fumbles, reaching out. His hands feel like covered in oil. There's nothing to grasp.

There's nothing to be aware of, time has ceased to exist and the pain is but a faint throb from far away. All thoughts are blurry.

If he could just push away the dark and get up again –

Reach up and -

If -

* * *

"He is  _just a servant_."

"So his life is worthless?"

"His life is worth less than yours. You are not leaving this castle tonight!"

The King's words are an order.

Arthur rides anyway.

* * *

There's a glimmer – suddenly – silvery and cold and it slowly steps forward. Merlin's breath hitches in his throat. He recognizes the weary face, but not the shadow trailing behind it. "Arthur," he cries out, but the man doesn't seem to notice the one following him. The person is wearing red. Red like blood, sinister and dark, and Merlin opens his mouth again trying to warn the prince. "Arthur!"

The Prince is hanging on the ledge of a cliff dangerously and his grasp is slowly slipping and Merlin wishes he could reach out and help him. He's tries moving forward but is frozen, shadows grasping his arms and holding him back. "Arthur!"

This darkness – it's the darkness piercing from every direction. If he could will it away, then Arthur could see and climb up and get away from that dark, dark place.

"Light," Merlin whispers, he needs  _light_ , " _ **Leoth**_ _.._.  _ **leoth**_   _ **fylst …**_ _ **Arthur**_ _._ "

Warm blue forms in the palm of his hand, steady, and he pushes it in the direction of the prince, it floats toward him and casts shadows on the stone walls. A cave. It's a cave. Merlin shivers; he doesn't like caves, the confinement, the dark stone trapping him from all sides.

"Climb, Arthur!" he urges the prince, "Follow the light! Hurry! Faster!"

From the ledge, that red shadow suddenly appears, a furious look on her face – she's dangerously beautiful and somehow familiar and there's a net of  _power_  around her. Her magic gathers in her hand and Merlin launches forward. "No!" He can't let her harm Arthur. But his limbs are so heavy. There's so much pain and the dark is starting to return, pressing from the edges.

"You are a fool, Emrys," the woman hisses, causing him to start. "You might have escaped this time, but the next, you shall not. I swear you this."

Emrys. Emrys. That name … the dragon always …

Merlin's head hurts, his chest hurts, he wants to sleep but he needs to help Arthur, it's difficult to think. "Emrys?"he asks; "Who are you? Why do you call me Emrys?  _Why are you doing this?"_

But the woman fades away without answer and now, Arthur has reached the upper part of the cave, following the light.  _The light_  ... Merlin's eyes close, he's so  _tired_  … the darkness starts to fade and the noises are going gray and muddy. He wants to sleep. But. Arthur, and the light. He has to make sure Arthur's safe – that he makes it out of the cave and the dark and back to Camelot.

_The light._


	10. Part 9: Follow the Light [The Poisoned Chalice, part two]

**Part 9:**

# Follow the Light

**_[The Poisoned Chalice, part two]_ **

* * *

The next thing he knows, he's trapped beneath a blanket in a heavy aching body covered with sweat, with sunlight falling across his face. The sharp stirring of something in a pot is suddenly abandoned, replaced quick footsteps and a mild voice next to his ear. He blinks up at the ceiling blearily.

"Merlin!" Gwen exclaims appearing on the bedside. Her face is worn by worry and fatigue; there are dark rings underneath her eyes. "Oh, we've been so worried."

His tongue feels like lead. "Whaa…? What happened?"

"You were poisoned!" the servant girl continues. She's pale and her fingers curl around the edge of the blanket stiffly, knuckles whitening. "You were right about the goblet. Then Arthur disobeyed his father and rode out for a cure, a flower, and Gaius could make a potion and save you. We barely had time but – but you're all right now. Oh, Merlin! We were all so worried!"

Her arms wrap around his torso in a tight, breathtaking hug - and he's too weary to even worry about her figuring out his secret - before she backs away with an awkward smile, rapidly apologizing for her forwardness. "I'm just so glad you're all right."

 _Arthur. The light. That woman … Was it real?_ Unconsciously Merlin snaps his palms shut, like trying to put out any magic that might be there. There's none and if there ever was, Gwen does not seem to have noticed. At least, she doesn't act like it.

Then - the words make impact. "Arthur?" There was so much he wants to know:  _Arthur? He saved my life? Arthur? Is he all right?_

"Yes. The King was furious," Gwen says. "He had him locked in the dungeon. It was by a stroke of luck we even got our hands on the flower since everybody was forbidden to see him…"

Merlin wishes the prince was here for him to thank him. He might be a dollophead but he's really a good man inside, even if he won't admit it.

But then the fear comes. If his dream, the vision, the darkness was real … the woman and Arthur climbing was real … then, his magic. He'd used his magic openly for Arthur to see. Had Arthur seen? Had Arthur  _realized_? A tight knot settles at the bottom his stomach, near the spine, painfully. Does Arthur  _know_?

Gwen is oblivious to all of this going through Merlin's mind. She stands, patting down his blankets and telling him not fall asleep even if he wants to. "I'll fetch Gaius and tell him you're awake."

* * *

"King Bayard didn't poison me," is the first proper sentence Merlin tells Gaius, who settles by the bedside.

"I know."

 _That_  surprises him. "How?"

The answer is annoyingly vague. "I recognize the mark of the sorcerer's magic. Yes, magic had been used to enhance the potion." He takes one of Merlin's hands, voice softening. "We came very close to losing you, Merlin."

Merlin is still very tired and his head is heavy, but his stomach rumbles loudly in that moment reminding him of how  _hungry_  he is. "Food?" he asks hopefully.

"I have some broth here. Sip slowly or you'll be sick."

The substance is thin and hot but soothing on his aching throat and empty stomach, and he eats as much as he can, before the bowl is put away and he settles amongst the pillows again.

"You were lucky, Merlin," Gaius says and pulls an extra blanket over him. "Arthur may give you a hard time, but at heart he's a man of honour. There aren't many men who'd have risk what he did for a servant."

He smiles weakly at his guardian. "It would've been for nothing if you didn't know how to make the antidote."

Something strange comes over Gaius' face, an expression that fleetingly has been there before but Merlin hasn't taken much note of it until now. "It wasn't your destiny to die yet," the old man says cryptically before standing and gathering the dirty dishes.

 _Destiny_. The word rings eerily in Merlin's ears.  _Why can't I have control of it or even know it all, while others around me seem to know? … Nobody gives me any clear answers!_

* * *

It takes two days before he's strong enough to be let out of bed. Arthur still hasn't been released from the dungeons and Merlin's apprehension to meet him only grows. But he doesn't mention it to Gaius. The old man would only worry (more than usual) and if the worst happens, Gaius won't be connected to any crimes. Hopefully.

Gwen visits every day. It's nice to hear her voice, as she retells what's happened during the day, of whatever mishaps there might've been but usually there haven't been any. She says that even the cook who's always so annoyed at Merlin, who is so clumsy and drops things and always is in the way, misses him and his cheerful bumbling ways, and some of the other servants too. Even lady Morgana wonders how he fares. Hearing it makes him smile and feel warm inside for some reason, but it's just a tiny feeling, it's nothing compared to the tight knots at the bottom of his stomach. He still can't stop thinking about Arthur and the magic and  _what if he'd_   _seen_?

She doesn't talk much about Arthur, though. She's not one of the servants bringing him meals so she's not seen him, except for the time she snuck down to bring the flower to Gaius. Merlin doesn't want to sound too inquiring, Gwen is already giving him these suspicious looks as if she is figuring out what he's thinking and fearing, and he doesn't want to give her more reason to worry.

Between Gwen's visits there's little to do. He can't read his magic book, since he's not allowed to sleep in his own room yet – Gaius wants to keep a close eye on him – and it's too risky in case anyone walks in.

Mostly, Merlin sleeps and sleeps, and in-between he eats, or tries to eat (Gaius' cooking is  _horrible_  sometimes, well, most of the time actually and mixed with medicine it's rather dreadful) and then he sleeps some more, falling into dream-worlds where the dragon often lies on the rocky outcropping waiting for him, attacking him with riddles and invisible spears, but it answers none of his questions. Sometimes, Arthur is there too, in the dreams, a shadow in the corner, but the dreams make no sense and the Prince never speaks.

* * *

The candles cause long shadows to creep into the cracks in the wood of the table. Outside, the windows the world is dark, and they're sharing an evening meal. Merlin, with a blanket hunched over his shoulders as he sips the warm comforting broth, decides to ask the question which has plagued him for hours - or possibly days and weeks, all since he first heard the name from the dragon. He just hasn't dared asking until now. The woman – Nimueh, Gaius had said – speaking it had startled him so much and he  _needs_  to know.

"Gaius, do you know anything about Emrys?"

The old man visibly reacts, dropping the spoon with a clatter, which in turn startles Merlin. He'd of course  _hoped_  Gaius would have heard of it; the old man is the wisest person the young warlock knows, but he's usually so tightlipped that he'd just shake his head anyway and tell him not to think of it, pretending not to know (but Merlin is sure he does). This – this is different.

"Wherever have you heard that name?" he demands sharply.

"I – I read it, in my magic book," Merlin says quickly. Gaius probably wouldn't react well at knowing his ward has been having weekly conversations with a  _dragon_  beneath the castle. (A dragon which gives no clear answers no matter how much Merlin bothers it with questions.)

He's already tried sneaking down to the libraries to find answers there, a few times before the goblet incident entirely. But the librarian, Geoffrey, has got something against him, or maybe  _everyone_ , because he's usually not let in – and he usually doesn't have time to either, busy when working for both Arthur and Gaius and too tired in-between all of his duties. If he  _is_  allowed inside, the man would hover on his shoulder making it impossible for him to use his magic to find what he's looking for, or to look for it at all. Emrys sounds like a magic name, maybe druidic and Merlin's not that big an idiot that he'll  _openly_  search for magical things in the royal library. (Such books have probably been burned anyway, unless Geoffrey has some hidden stash somewhere, stored away from prying eyes and the King's knowledge.)

"And …" Merlin hesitates for a moment. "When I was unconscious from the poison, I had a sort of dream, or vision, I'm not sure what it was. I saw a woman in red … She mentioned that name."

The old man is silent for a moment, picking up the spoon and settling it on the table. Then he looks at him, brows furrowed. "Well," he says finally. "I guess you'd come across it sooner or later."

When hearing that, Merlin isn't sure whether to be fearful.

"What does it mean? Who are they?"

A dreamy light enters Gaius' eyes, as if he's been sharing these words around a campfire years ago ( _how many years? How many decades have it been?)_  when Camelot was a less dangerous place for sorcerers, when the old man was young and full of hope. Merlin feels apprehensive somehow. He leans in, curious to know.

"There is this prophecy - an ancient prophecy. I'm not sure if the druids were the first to begin speaking of it, or if they carried on word from even further back in time, but through them many other sorcerers and also ordinary folk have come to hear of it. No exact name has been put to who spoke it first or wrote it down - albeit guesses have been made – and there are several versions of it. But they all speak of one thing: a great King,  _the Once and Future_ , who one day will rise and unite the scattered people of Albion. And on the King's side Emrys will stand, and together they'll bring peace and harmony to the land – and magic."

Gaius pauses, his face darkening.

"That is what King Uther fears so badly. A return of magic, led by someone who might turn out to be his greatest enemy ... the Purge itself would be threatened. There was once several books in the city were the prophecies were written down but the King had them all burned."

" _And the owners of those books?"_  Merlin wants to ask but doesn't because he's sure of the answer already and Gaius look so pain-stricken by old memories. He doesn't want to tear up the scars.

Instead he asks; "Did they say anything more about Emrys?"

"Only vaguely. Among druids and sorcerers, Emrys is said to be the most powerful sorcerer to ever live or have lived: that he can defeat armies with the sweep of a hand; upturn mountains with a word; turn sand to water without spells. Uther would have the right sense to fear him."

"Some say he's some illusion, not real, and does not walk the earth of mortal men. Others say that he  **is**  magic, not just a wielder of it. I myself believe the latter - if he is real at all… Magic folks have been waiting for decades, but there have been no clear signs yet of it coming true – some have lost hope, especially after the Purge."

Merlin's eyes widen.  _The most powerful sorcerer to ever have lived?_ That just – that makes no sense! How …  _why_  does the dragon keep calling him the name of such a sorcerer? There's  _no way_  … His magic might be strong and he does a lot on instinct alone but nothing like  _that_  … He could hardly believe himself to be that strong, that no one before or after him will ever share that power. It just –  _how_  could it be? He's just a peasant boy from nowhere!

"And that woman I saw? Do you know anything about her?" he can't stop himself from asking.

For once his mentor is straightforward and honest.

"I believe she is the one who poisoned you. She disguised herself as one of Bayard's servants to come here, to witness the fulfilling of her work," Gaius answers. "Nimueh is dangerous and powerful, Merlin, and a Priestess of the Old Religion meaning she does have more raw power than the average sorcerer. A very dangerous enemy to have. You must be careful, if – gods forbid – you ever come face to face with her again."

"But I still don't understand … Why did she go through all the trouble of framing Bayard? She could've just kept quiet and killed Arthur using some curse from afar …"

"But destroying Arthur and Camelot wasn't what she was after. She  _knew_  you would be forced to drink that wine. It was  _you_  she targeted." The old man pauses, and the next words weigh heavy, and the old man pins him down with a look Merlin can't read. "It seems that someone else knows you must destined for great things."

 _Destiny_. Merlin's chest clenches.

"Merlin," his guardian reminds him before going to bed; "You shouldn't speak of this to anyone.  _Never_  utter those two names aloud. The King could have you beheaded for simply having heard of her, and of Emrys. You must be careful."

The warlock nods shortly, his blood pumping fast in his veins and rushing loudly past his ears, and he's unable to form an answer.

* * *

King Bayard and his company are released the same day as Arthur is, and the following morning they ride out through the city gates.

The question of peace and war is standing on the edge of a knife, and they have to wait for a few anxious days before it is clear whether Bayard will take his arrest as an insult enough to attack, or if he will see that Uther has realized his mistake and still seek peace. The soldiers and knights are on high alert in any case; ready to be sent out to defend the kingdom if the worst is to happen.

Arthur stands on the battlements watching them leave, relieved despite of the threat.

"Let the bragging begin, then," his step-sister says as she rounds up to him, smiling mysteriously. Arthur always had had a difficult time trying to figure out what went through her head. "How did you do it?"

For once, he cannot boast; there's nothing to say. Perhaps when fighting the cockatrice … but no. In the end, it wasn't just skill or even dumb luck.

"I didn't do it on my own," he admits at last, and instead of looking smug, Morgana looks astonished. "It was strange … Someone sensed I was in trouble and sent a light to guide the way. Without them I'd probably be dead by now."

He looks over the wall, at the sky.  _Who are you?_  he asks it, wherever this mysterious savior might be. They obviously used sorcery. But why would anyone aid the prince of Camelot with magic?

_Only a fool._

Morgana looks at him oddly, her expression difficult to read. There are no taunting words, perplexingly enough, but Arthur is relieved. He has a lot on his mind, too much to be able to deal with Morgana's sharp tongue.

His father approaches them. Sensing this is going to be a father-son conversation, Morgana takes her leave, but Arthur is certain she is going to taunt him for weeks to come about his inability to save himself (or, perhaps, she'll taunt him for his sudden willingness to risk his life for a servant, something which Arthur tries not to think of too much. The subject makes him uneasy).

He hasn't forgotten what his father told him in the cell, the warning left behind: _"There's a wrong way and a right way of doing things."_ echoing between the walls.

"Father," he acknowledges.

The King rests his palms against the stone. "It's been years since Camelot has been so close to open war, as we were now. Only thanks to you has it been avoided."

It's the closest to a forgiving he'll come, and Arthur accepts it with open arms. His father's next words however make him falter in bewilderment. "That woman you met in the forest – what did she say to you?"

"Not much," Arthur admits. "It was strange though."

"In what way?"

"I was at her mercy. She could have killed me right then and there, but she didn't. She let me go. It's odd … I think she said that  _'it wasn't my destiny to die at her hand'._ "

There's a change in the wind, and his father's eyes grows distant. "You must have been scared."

"Had its moments," Arthur answers, keeping his tone light; he'll never admit how he felt then, with the nameless woman towering about him and her magic so close to his skin, intrusive and dangerous, and then the relief, the  _hope_  which the strange blue light then rekindled in him.

He hasn't said anything about a light in the reports to his father, and doesn't plan on telling anyone – except Morgana, but she is trustworthy. (She's always been rather calm when it comes to magic, never shown any direct fear of it, and she's spoken against Uther several times when the order of execution is brought up.) It's best that way.

"Those who practice magic know only evil," Uther says firmly. "They despise and seek to destroy goodness wherever they find it. That is why she wanted you dead. She is evil."

"You sound as if you know her," Arthur remarks, startled.

"To know the heart of one sorcerer is to know them all." The King leans back from the wall and lays a hand on his shoulder, speaking sincerely. "You did the right thing, even though you disobeyed me. I'm proud of you, Arthur. Never forget that."

* * *

Later that night, Merlin sneaks out of his room, past the physician and the guards and deep down under the sleeping city, waving a torch for attention.

"Hey! Dragon! I need to talk to you!"

The large creature lands on the usual outcropping, regarding him with a curious twinkle in its eye. "I am here. There is no need to yell in such a manner."

"Why do you keep calling me Emrys?"

"Because you  **are**. Is it so difficult to understand, young warlock?"

Merlin glares at the giant creature. "I, no–  **yes.**  Why  _me_? Why not  _someone_   _else_? This has to be a mistake. Arthur might be the Once and Future King, one day, when (if) he's less an idiot, but I'm not this Emrys. I  _can't_  be. My magic isn't that strong and I – I don't know that much, I can't bring magic back to Camelot! That's impossible! Plus Arthur'd never take me seriously, if I ever told him. Of course he wouldn't! There must be someone else, a druid who knows more, or someone  _grand_ —"

"Merlin."

The warlock flinches and goes quiet. The dragon only called him by his  _real_  name that first time when he arrived at Camelot, open-eyed and curious.

"There is no other sharing your fate. Your destiny may intertwine with others', but it isn't and shall never be another's to carry."

" _Please_ ," Merlin pleads, in despair – he can't shoulder that burden and those expectations all alone, he can't,  _it's so unfair_. He never wanted to be this different! He never wanted to be special! He just wanted to grow up without the secrets piling up on one another!

"I'm not Emrys. I  _can't_  be. The prophecies and you and everyone calling me that – you're wrong. You're all wrong!"

He throws the torch to the ground causing the flame to flicker and then rushes out, up and up and out into the cool night air.

Down in the cave, the air is damp and warm from the fire in the dragon's belly, but up here it's cold and  _free_. He dashes past the guards the moment they look away.

But not toward Gaius' chamber. No, he can't – can't face anyone right now, can't face anyone's questions. Instead he flees toward the battlements. There's no one by the eastern tower except for a bored-looking guard, and Merlin steals past while the man's back is turned and sinks to the ground behind a pillar, exhausted and with his chest clenching and discovers there are tears in his eyes, warm and wet. He doesn't remember having start crying, but now he just can't stop.

 _Damn it,_  he thinks, furious and confused and hurt and lonely,  _I don't want it to be like this! I just want to live my life without an already planned fate, without having to save lives or live up to those grand things, without the expectations. Without any already written names. I just - I just want to be_ _ **me**_ _._

* * *

Merlin wakes up with a terrible crick in his neck.

And he's also very, very cold from the constant whining wind; his arms feel like ice-blocks. He's curled in a now uncomfortable position on the stone, nestled in an alcove that offers little protection. His lower stomach aches slightly, a sign he'd usually recognize at any time, but now he's too preoccupied by the stubborn, biting chill to pay heed to the warning.

It takes a moment to remember what he's doing here.

Then he notices something else: a glare, furiously burning against his temple.

" _Mer_ lin," the Prince berates him in an irritated, loud manner, but most of his voice is stolen by the wind. His hair hasn't been combed, Merlin notes, and the upper part of his tunic hasn't been fastened. He looks decidedly unprincely. He  _sounds_  decidedly unprincely.

"You shouldn't be out of bed!" Arthur continues to attack. "You've barely recovered from poisoning, you fool."

"Err," Merlin says, he's been expecting more … yelling. And swearing. And anger. And  _guards_. Where are the guards, with their spears and accusations and where are the orders of arrest …? Why is Arthur standing there alone and empty-handed? Is he …  _worried_?

Nothing makes any sense.

"Come on, let's get you to Gaius. He's  _furious_ you know. He says your bed hasn't even been slept in! Have you been out here all night? You are one big idiot,  _Mer_ lin. If you die because of some stupid cold and I've gone through all of that trouble for nothing, I am  _personally_  going to kill you."

Strong hands (they're warm and nice compared to the wind) grasp his shoulders and haul him up, making Merlin dizzy. Arthur's hands, he realizes, he's not noticed before how pleasant they are. Is he supposed to be this dizzy? His arm itches and his feet don't feel that steady against the ground. But Arthur's hands are nice and comforting and he doesn't want them to let go.

"Sorry," he manages to wheeze. "Didn't mean to."

The prince rolls his eyes. "Of course not. Come now." Internally Merlin marvels at the prince's sudden kindness and unpratliness as he supports him on the way down three sharply dwindling stairs, and how the man remains stoic and unaffected at the surprised looks from the guards when they pass them by, all the way to Gaius' rooms.

"What were you doing out there anyway?"

"I – nothing," Merlin says and looks away. He doesn't want the prince to know about the tears, he'd been teased mercilessly about that. "Just … thinking."

"So you  _do_  that from time to time; I was starting to wonder."

It's really cold and it takes forever before they reach Gaius' chambers which are warm from the fire burning low in the hearth.

"Ha ha," the warlock mutters dryly and lets himself be lowered down onto a bed. It's much more comfortable than the stone floor.

"Now, don't move an inch or I'll have you thrown in the stocks," Arthur threatens and looks around the room. "Where's Gaius? I'll have to find him. Wrap yourself in a blanket, or something," he tells Merlin who has no problem obeying for once. "Don't want your stupid ears to fall off from the cold." The man tugs at the hem of the servant's damp clothes. "And change out of these!"

Startled the warlock glances up at the Prince and momentarily feels terrified at the thought of undressing where Arthur can see, see him and his secrets, but the Prince has already turned away; he quickly walks into Merlin's room and there's the sound of shuffling.

After a minute he returns with arms full of creased clothing; a plain sleeping shirt and a pair of thick socks. Merlin can't help but blush – Arthur's just searched through his belongings without a second thought! What if he'd kept something  _personal_  there? – and then be incredibly thankful that the man didn't discover anything important, like his magic book.

The clothes are dumped on his lap, followed by an order: "Well, go on then. I'm fetching Gaius. Don't dare move!"

Arthur turns on his heel and the moment the door's closed, Merlin sighs tiredly and heaves out of bed just enough to wriggle out of the damp clothes – Arthur's right for once; sleeping in them would've been terribly uncomfortable – and puts on the nightshirt, and peels off his boots replacing them with the clean warm socks. Ah. That's better.

Merlin really would like some tea but that meant having to get up, fetch a cup, put a pot on the fire … That means getting out of the cover of the bed and step back into the chilly air. Ugh. He nuzzles his toes into the blanket and wishes it was lined with fur, like the ones in the Prince's chamber.

His eyes turn golden and a pot conveniently gets filled with water and floats over to the fire, and it takes not long for it to heat and then he pours its contents in a cup. A handful of leaves are added at the bottom and the cup finds its way to Merlin's waiting hands. There -  _much_  better. Pleased he smiles to himself and snuggles into the blanket. Magic is nice to have sometimes.

(And having Arthur fussing like that is also kind of nice ... even if he does it in his own prattish way.)


	11. Part 10: ... And It May Show You to a Safe Harbour [Interlude]

**Part 10:**

# ... And it May Show You to a Safe Harbour

**_[Interlude]_ **

* * *

Gaius is returning from delivering the King his medicine against the pain in his shoulder, the remains of an old wound, when a slightly – nay,  _truly_  irate Prince bursts into the library to inform him that he's found "his blasted idiot servant" hiding near the top of one of the towers, muttering about having to drag him down all the way. Before Gaius can inquire about any details however, the Prince has turned on his heel and left.

The physician pleasantly surprised when returning from his errands to find his ward in his chambers wrapped in a blanket, drowsing peacefully despite the morning light. To ease the pale light so that he might sleep properly – he certainly needs it - Gaius pulls shut the shutters over the windows and settles at the desk to read while waiting for the boy to wake. But he finds he cannot concentrate on the words before him.

No, his thoughts wander to more recent events than medical journals from the last century.

His ward has been so quiet as of late. Perhaps it's the confinement to bed and the long monotone days of doing nothing; mostly he's not let the boy out of bed at all, and many hours of the day he's also been forced to be alone, as the physician runs errands and Gwen, who uses to visit, is working. But Gaius has a sense there's more to it.

The conversation last night, and Merlin's reactions, had truly concerned him. The boy had said he'd dreamed, seen Nimueh in those dreams, and through her he'd heard the name Emrys - but something about that story doesn't seem entirely  _right_  for Gaius to be suited with it.

For _why_  would Nimueh contact Merlin in such a manner and speak that name? Why would she even poison him? He is just a peasant boy – though being the Prince's manservant, few of importance would bother to even remember his name if they ever met him and knowledge of his existence wouldn't be common outside Camelot – no one would know of him, and never suspect him of magic or the like – it just isn't  _logical_.

Unless…

Gaius' mind reels at the thought. No _… It cannot be!_

But.

Merlin's panicked eyes, the fervent questions and need to know more … Piecing it together with the boy's strong affinity for magic – the gift so attached to the boy's very soul and so easily reached and bent by him, unlike anything Gaius has ever before seen – and his coming to Camelot and  _convenient_  meeting with Prince Arthur and saving his life; the pair's sudden attachment even though both refuse to admit it, how Merlin slowly has started to mold the Prince into the man he truly is, working through that thick arrogant façade …

If that is true, then all makes sudden  _sense_.

The old man hesitates. There is none he can share these suspicions with. Such a thing is far too dangerous. Then what should he do?

Turn a blind eye, like he's so done so many times before?

* * *

At midday Merlin wakes from his nap, feeling more rested than he has for days or maybe even weeks, and he's comfortably warm.

The warlock sits up, stretching his arms; they don't feel as heavy now when he's slept but still they ache a bit, especially his left one, where the rash has been: there's an itch right below the skin that he can't quite reach. It's difficult to keep from scratching at it – Gaius has been threatening to tie him down if he doesn't leave it alone. The red mark hasn't faded completely yet.

His stomach growls for attention, so Merlin raises his head and looks about the room. His guardian is writing something by the desk, completely absorbed in his work. A plate is set next to the candle, filled with bread and venison and turnip. He's never set his eyes on anything more tempting. He swings his feet out from under the blankets, wincing at the chilly air's merciless attack on his bare legs; he really should've taken the time to find a pair of trousers before falling asleep … Ugh, it's  _cold_. But he's hungry as well and the hunger is direr than anything else at the moment.

He's half-way to the table when a concerned voice stops him. "Merlin, wait."

Abruptly, Merlin freezes.

"There's blood on the sheets. Why is there blood? Are you hurt?"

Suddenly  _aware_ , the warlock breaks out in a cold sweat. That's why he felt so off last night, with the faint ache, he realizes, but it'd been so  _subtle_. He should've known, should've recognized the signs!

Quietly he struggles not to be sick with fear, all thoughts of food forgotten. He doesn't want Gaius to know. Doesn't want to go through that again (he remembers clinging to his mother's skirts, her voice filled with disbelief, his own tear-filled eyes). He doesn't want to go through all that again; it would hurt so much, be so  _shameful._

"Merlin," Gaius voice is stern. "Speak to be in honesty. Have you been injured when I wasn't present?"

He can't – he doesn't want to tell but he hates spreading so many lies, it's difficult to lie straight up in Gaius' face. "No!"

"Lie down. Let me examine you."

"It's nothing. I swear, I'm fine."

He needs to get  _away_. He inches toward the door, face burning. His mother had once told him not be ashamed, but how could he not be? How could he not want to run away and hide?

"Merlin!"

"Really, it's nothing."

Gaius grabs his wrist and the grip is surprisingly strong for such an old frail man. "You're a dreadful liar."

"Please, Gaius," Merlin says weakly, "it really isn't—"

The look sent his way silences him.

"Does it hurt anywhere?"

This time it actually doesn't hurt that much (usually the ache is a dull, persistent throb that his mother had said, trying to soothe him, would eventually get better and disappear but Merlin personally has his doubts) and he shakes his head, averting his gaze. All of these lies, one after the other - they leave a bitter gall in his mouth.

"Hmm. Strange. Take off your clothes."

For some reason he starts trembling. Or maybe he's been all the while but not noticed until now. He doesn't want Gaius to examine him like a – like a  _thing_. Like it's  _wrong_ and needs to be examined and revealed. (People would think it wrong. But he's tried so hard to tell himself that it's not, the bubble is so delicate, so fragile that a single word or hand could easily break it.) He doesn't want his naked body to be looked at or touched or – or anything else now. Why can't Gaius  _understand_ that and leave him be?

"I'm fine," Merlin whispers. "I'm fine."

"Merlin, something clearly isn't right." His mentor's voice is softer now and the man pulls up a pallet to sit in front of him. He takes one of the quivering hands. "Merlin, I see you don't want to but it's important for me to know that you are fine. Did somebody hurt you? Did anyone … force you do things you didn't want?"

The warlock looks at him confused, then, realizing what he's implying, shakes his head violently. He has this weird urge to laugh. Gaius is all off and even if he did tell, he wouldn't understand! Nobody would.

He draws back his hand from the physician's gentle grip, quietly cursing himself for having so little self-control. "It's nothing like that. It's not a … a wound or injury. Please, just leave it.  _Please_."

If he's not let out soon his magic will burst on its own accord, Merlin knows it's happened before when he's been upset like this.

"Merlin, I'm sorry but I cannot allow you to leave this room until I find out exactly what is wrong."

"But I can't!" Merlin yells. " _Can't_  let you know. You don't understand.  _Don't understand_." His breath hitches. He doesn't want to cry, not again, damn it! " _Please_ , Gaius."

Maybe it's the desperation of his voice, or the anguished words, but the physician does stand and back away and lets him go. Merlin doesn't run out this time to the battlements or someplace else but up to his room, closing the door with a snap and curling up on the tiny cot. His face burns in fear and shame and his heart beats so fast.

He'd give  _anything_  right now to be back in Ealdor with his mother and Will.

* * *

Soft footsteps pad up to his door and he glances up when it opens, tendrils of candlelight falling upon the floorboards. He rubs furiously at his face but it still feels warm and red. Gaius places the candle on the upturned box next to the bed, serving as a table, and next to it, a steaming bowl and a piece of bread and cheese. Merlin eyes the food; he's not eaten anything solid for days but finds he has no real appetite now.

"I thought you might be hungry."

He takes the offered food and nibbles at it. It tastes sour now, but it's somewhat soothing as well, and the broth is warm on his throat.

The old man lets him eat in silence for a few minutes, before he begins to speak, and he used soft quiet tones and there's no rush, no stress in them. Not the same force as before. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I, no … yes," Merlin mumbles and swallows. He wants, but he's scared of what the reaction will be. "I - I'm not sure  _how_." There are no right words to use, they all feel awkward and off but they're all he has. "It's complicated."

"I can deal with complicated," Gaius says, soothing him a bit.

"It started when I was little. Well, it's always…always  _been there_. But I didn't notice until I was eleven, or twelve I think it was."

He tells him about the lake, and Will, and the blood. About rushing up to the cottage and throwing himself into his mother's arms in confusion. Gaius sits quiet and it's difficult to read his face, and Merlin looks away in embarrassment when retelling those painful moments and awkward memories. "She examined me," he says, "she knows a bit about medicine. Things that you taught her. But she was so worried and … She said she'd never seen  _anything_  like that before, that my – my body, it's different and I couldn't change that. She didn't know what to do." Suddenly tears spring his eyes, hot and salty. " _I_  didn't know what to do."

He tells him about hiding in the house for days, about fearing it was magic and that people would find out. "If they did, they'd think it magic, they wouldn't  _understand_. I think … I think I was always like this, but after that moment things just changed. I couldn't turn things back the way they were before." He tells him about trying to force away the difference with his magic, wordless and raw, but nothing had worked, it'd only  _hurt_  so badly, as if he'd tried to remove himself from the earth, and his mother had been so angry and worried and scolded him worse than she had in years.

Finally, he tells him about the secrecy, about being alone, that there was no one that truly understood and of how quiet his mother always was about it. Things she never wanted to tell him but he _noticed_. He tells him about growing up confused and uncertain and scared, with not only his magic but his body to hide too: this permanent, strange state of  _both_  and  _in-between_. When he stops speaking, he's shaking, but there are no accusations from the old man.

"Am I a freak?" he whispers. Regardless of the truth, he needs to hear it. "Am I some kind of monster?"

Gaius grasps his shoulders and looks him in the eye, startling him. "Merlin,  **never**  think that."

The physician stays and lets him weep on his shoulder. In hindsight Merlin would feel rather pathetic, but right then and there it feels good to just cry and Gaius smells of old herbs and reminds him of home. It's  _safe_.

"Arthur will require you tomorrow as I told him you ought to be well enough to do simple chores. Do you want me to tell him you're still too ill to work?"

For a moment, Merlin considers it, and then shakes his head. "No." He's not weak, and he doesn't want Arthur to think so. This morning – had it only been this morning? It feels so long ago, like a dream almost – had been so vague and he can't quite remember all the details. He wants to face Arthur and find out exactly  _what_  Arthur knows _. His magic_. "No," he says again, more firmly. "I want to work."

"All right. Eat up, and get some sleep. You need it." Gaius moves to stand, but Merlin stops him.

"…Thank you. For … for being here. For listening."

"I always will be. Don't think of it." The physician's tone is serious as he stands to put out the candles, albeit Merlin sees there's a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth right before the lights goes out and the room falls into darkness. But unlike before, this dark is warm and safe and it doesn't worry him. " _Sleep,_ Merlin."

* * *

Next morning he leaves for work feeling exhilarated despite the recent ordeals. His heart is so much lighter. Because Gaius had listened and not condemned or judged. This morning the physician had promised to help him to hide his situation, and again reminded him that he could tell the old man an there's  _anything_  bothering him, like a worried parent – but then he is his uncle, and Merlin couldn't wish for a better one. Apart from his mother Gaius is the first person to  _know_  … and having someone knowing within Camelot's walls makes him actually feel a little safer, instead of uncertain which he'd feared: one of the reasons he'd hid it from Gaius until now.

He's only allowed to do simple chores; no heavy lifting, not too much running up and down the corridors and no mucking out the stables. Not that he's complaining about that. He's quite certain Gaius would've preferred to keep him abed for another week or two - maybe just to keep him out of trouble. But he's a servant and if he's gone too long, the Prince might just see it fit to sack him and hire some other, more sufficient servant; and they need the pay. Gaius might be court physician, but the pay he earns is meager, especially when to feed two people instead of one.

Something's changed, he notices when he goes down to the kitchens to fetch Arthur's breakfast. The way people look at him or address him. Before, a lot of servants had been downright rude; now though they're looking at him like in a new light. As if they've realized something.

One, a man in his mid-twenties that Merlin just vaguely recognizes as a stable hand, approaches him and apologizes for his previous behaviour toward him, and Merlin realizes with startling clarity it's all because of the poisoned goblet. Maybe they though his coming to Camelot and convenient saving of Arthur's life was a set-up or  _something_ , but the goblet couldn't possible have been – his barging in on the ceremony and having the Prince threatening him and still not listening to orders, drinking it anyway. And now he's slowly starting to gain the castle staff's trust.

Merlin feels oddly proud of himself, that he's achieved that.

"Maybe if I drunk some more poison then everyone'd like me," he muses aloud, eyes twinkling, when running into Gwen who's very happy to see him up and about again.

The maidservant stares at him in horror when hearing his words. "Merlin! Don't say things like that, that's terrible!" she admonishes.

He glances at her slightly apologetically. "I was only  _joking_ , Gwen."

"You shouldn't joke about it," Gwen tells him seriously. "You came close to –" she draws a shuddering breath. "Please don't frighten me anything like that again. I mean, us, Gaius too, not just me, and I'm sure a lot of people were very worried about you too, not just - me."

"I can't make promises like that," he answers but sighs, admitting that yes, she's right, it was stupid to say that. But he can't promise. If Arthur or Gwen or Gaius or anyone else near him got hurt and he could do something about it, he wouldn't hesitate.

The woman shakes her head as if continuing to mentally berate him. "You truly are odd, Merlin. Not in a bad way of course! It's amazing what you did … saving Arthur's life like that, so brave. And he broke the King's orders to save you. That's, that's unheard of, really."

It's the second time he's heard it, but it still sounds as astonishing. "Nobody's done it before? A nobleman saving a peasant, I mean," he asks curiously.

"Not really. Of course, the knights have saved many lives, but not directly like that, against his Majesty's will," Gwen says. "I can't linger anymore, lady Morgana expects me. But we'll see each other later, right?"

"Of course."

Now he has just to brace himself and get ready to face Arthur. There's no telling how grouchy he'll be, given the incident last night.

* * *

The Prince raises an eyebrow when Merlin pulls the curtains apart, letting strong white sunlight into the spacious chamber.

"Still alive then?"

"Just about," Merlin replies, quirking a grin. He moves on toward the wardrobe.

Arthur slides out of bed, stretching like a cat before seating himself by the table where breakfast is laid out. It's quite more lavish than usual, the Prince notices, even if he suspect that there was a second piece of honeyed bread that's disappeared down his servant's throat on the way here (it wouldn't surprise him the least).

"Any particular reason for this feast?" he asks and the servant turns toward him, pausing in the middle of placing the Prince's clothes for the day on the nearest chair.

"Look, I never got to thank you – for saving my life," Merlin says, edging the words, a bit hesitant. He's not exactly practiced this speech and Arthur is fully concentrated on him, as if he were a thirsty man drinking the words. "Last night was, um. Well, I wasn't thinking that clearly."

"So I noticed."

Merlin's voice is serious, eyes burning with sincerity. "Thank you, Arthur."

"Well," the Prince says and shrugs and starts digging into the bread. "A half-decent servant is hard to come by."

The words are casual but Merlin knows how difficult it is to wriggle out even the simplest emotional statement out of the Prince, so hearing him say that makes him feel oddly warm, the feeling growing from the bottom of his stomach and up.

There's no mention about magic or swirling lights, even if he catches Arthur looking at him strangely later that day, but the Prince doesn't speak up, and before Merlin can ask Arthur has looked away and given him a new list of orders.

* * *

As it turns out, Gaius has been spending almost the whole day down in the library. No one has asked why, since it's not an uncommon sight, but the physician has felt slightly on edge looking for information such as this. In the eyes of the King and many others, science has always lain dangerously close to magic, and Gaius isn't entirely sure if his nephew's condition is one or the other, or a combination of both, or perhaps – an alarming thought – something else entirely.

"I have done some research," he responds when Merlin asks where he's been, the warlock coming home for dinner. "While I found something, I'm afraid the contents are very vague, and I am not sure how much truth lies within the words."

Merlin wants to hear it anyway, leaning over the table in anticipation, all attention focused on the physician as the old man opens the book he's brought. It's heavy and old and fragile, almost falling out it its binds. The food on the table is completely forgotten.

"This text is based on a myth told by the Greeks, an old people down in the south, far, far beyond Albion's coast," the physician begins. The warlock has never heard of that people or their land, and just nods. "The author himself describes the translation as quite loose and inexact to the original. But, mainly, it tells the story of a beautiful young man and a woman, a nymph, who fell in love with him; when he did not answer her love, she prayed to the gods that they make him and her one - of which she probably meant marriage. The prayer was answered and the two were joined, but not in the way the woman had intended: they became  _one_   _being_ , with a combination of  _both_  sexes. Now, I am not sure how much truth and how much fairytale this is. Physically, the description their body and its functions match yours; but I do not think yours came to be the same way as theirs."

Merlin wrinkles his nose, a bit displeased with how little the story actually told. Prayers, nymphs, gods … He'd sent no prayer wishing to be in this body!

"No, I've always been like this," he says with a shake of his head. "My mother mentioned something once about seeing I was a bit different, when I was an infant; but she thought it was nothing – that'd it disappear when I grew up, or something … But then I got the bleedings, proving she was right suspecting it all along."

"I agree: you were born like this. Unless, of course, an enchantment or spell was put upon you when you were little. Did you ever meet any sorcerers before coming to Camelot?"

Merlin shakes his head. "Not … not really. Well, sometimes, years ago there'd be exile sorcerers passing through Ealdor. Just a handful of them. They did simple tricks, but my mother convinced me to stay away from them even though I was very curious ... There was one of them though, when I was eight. One of the sorcerers who'd come for the Beltane feast acted … really odd around me, like he sensed my magic. Kind of skittish, actually. But I never spoke to him and surely I'd have noticed if he or someone else put a spell on me!"

The physician looks intrigued. "I have heard of such a skill – the ability to sense magic. It's rather common among druids. Can  _you_  do it?"

"Yeah. Sometimes, with some people - others are like blurred as if they're  _hiding_  it some way. But," Merlin says, returning the conversation to the original subject, "I can't imagine why he or any other sorcerer would have reason to … to do this to me!"

"Hm. I must say I agree. None of these sorcerers stayed for a longer period of time in Ealdor?"

"No. They all left shortly after arriving, to avoid detection by soldiers and witchhunters, and in total there weren't more than five I think. Although …" His voice stills for a moment, as he remembers the smell of ashes.

"There was a woman, Annie, living a few houses down the road from ours. But I doubt  _she_  could've done this to me – even if she was magic. She was old and don't think she was married; she'd been there for as long as I could remember. She was always very kind, sometimes looking after me when my mother was busy. I never  _sensed_  any magic in her … Never saw her perform anything of it, even if she never spoke of it in fear. She even said magic was something, something  _beautiful_  I think. But then – I was six years old, I think – some of Cenred's soldiers came to the village and took her away. At the time I didn't understand what was going on. Later as I grew up I realized what it meant. Why I didn't see her again after that … why there'd been the stench of burned flesh hanging over the village." He shudders and abruptly closes his eyes. "I didn't see her do any magic, Gaius. I never  _knew_."

The old man pulls him in for a hug. "Oh, my boy. I'm so sorry."

"It's a long time ago and I never knew her that well," he murmurs. "It's just that – she was innocent, she hadn't harmed a soul, and they just … just … It might just've been based on loose rumours or someone thought it suspicious: a lone old woman who still was doing so well, despite having no children or husband. There was no real trial, she couldn't defend herself, no one stood up for her ... It's so  _unfair_."

The old man sighs. "The Purge is not the first of Witch-hunts and, I fear, not the last, but it's one of the worst. Sorcerers fled not just Uther's kingdom but the whole of Albion, dispersing in panic, and those who didn't went into hiding. Some acted too late. Camelot is not the only kingdom with laws against magic, albeit the punishment here is harsh and there is no redemption. I know Mercia, Bayard's kingdom, doesn't openly display any friendship with magic but they do not have as many executions there as here. It's the same with Estecia, at least today. I've even heard rumour there's a sorcerer at Cenred's court. However two decades ago it was a different story. Many Kings joined Uther in his attempt to destroy magic once and for all."

"But this, I am certain, rules out the possibility of your body being the result of a spell or intentional magic. Which means, Merlin, your condition is something nature did – actually it makes sense, because if it  _was_  forced by magic, your own natural magic might've cleansed your system, so to speak. You have not shown any signs of being terminally ill. Just that your bleeding cycles are regular is a very good thing; if your body had been in distress, they probably would have been irregular. You're perfectly healthy."

Merlin bites his lip. To hear that is both soothing and frightening. Explaining that his body was the result of magic would've somehow been simpler …  _easier_  to accept.

"Maybe it is entirely natural – something that simply occurs from time to time. I do not have all the answers."

"You're a physician," the warlock edges. "Couldn't you … fix it?"

Gaius stares at him. Then, he says, sternly, eyes darkened: "No. No, Merlin, I cannot."

Anger and pain suddenly blossoms in Merlin's chest at the man's swift dismissal. He doesn't even seem to have  _considered_  it.

"Why, doesn't it matter that I want to be normal?! That I  _should_  be normal? That at least I should have _a_   _chance_  to be?" he snaps and abruptly stands up, nearly causing the chair to topple over, and his fists clenches. He's distantly aware of the pots and books littered all-over the room are rattling against the shelves, tremors of magic rushing through him as an outlet of his emotions.

"I thought you'd give me this chance at actually becoming normal, at getting rid of this secret, so I'd have to lie less! You don't understand, do you? Don't understand how difficult it is, how  _hard_ it's been to hide and it hurts being so – so  _lonely_  all the time with no one to talk to and no one to understand!  _ **I don't want it to be like this**!"_

The old man's tone softens. "Merlin, I would help you if I could, believe me. But your condition is something I've never before seen. Trying to 'fix', as you put it, something I have so little knowledge of would be extremely risky."

"But I'd take those risks gladly! I-"

"Do you  _truly_  want to take those risks?" Gaius' interrupts him in a grave tone. "If I attempt it, your very life could be at stake. My affinity for magic is weak and petty: it's nowhere strong enough to perform any kind of spell that could alter one's body so momentously. It'd be down to the skill of my hands alone. How do you think your mother would react, were I forced to send word to her that her son perished under my care?"

He shakes his head firmly. "No, Merlin - I refuse and will keep refusing to put a knife to my nephew unless it's absolutely necessary."

The warlock goes silent and after a moment sinks back onto his seat, defeated.

"I just … I'm sorry, Gaius. It was rash to say that. I just, I want to be normal. I don't want to keep hiding ..." the words wrenches in his throat almost gagging him, and his knuckles turn white.

There are no words that Gaius can offer to console him, not fully. "I am sorry as well, Merlin. I wish there was something I could do to make it easier for you, but all I can do is be here; as support, as a keen ear. Your secrets are safe with me."

Merlin wishes his secrets could be safe with the  _world._ "I suppose you're right." But he avoids looking at his mentor's face. "I should - I need to go, help Arthur settle for the night."

Right when he's standing on the threshold, Gaius' voice reaches him: "Merlin - I'm not angry with you. Remember that."

* * *

The Prince's chambers have darkened, only a few candles littered about burning low. The curtains haven't been drawn yet and the blackness of the windows makes the room feel cold, exposed. Merlin slips in and crosses the room to close them causing Arthur to look up from the desk where he's writing some important document that the warlock cannot read from this angle.

"... What are you doing here?" He sounds surprised. "I thought you'd gone to bed already."

"I came to help you retire, sire."

Arthur raises an eyebrow and Merlin realizes the man has already dressed in a pair of soft dark trousers and a nightshirt. "I expected Gaius would want you to take it easy and retire early."

"I'm not an invalid," Merlin retorts.

The Prince's face adopts a shadow, there's a strange seriousness and almost ...  _worry,_  fleeting as it is, in his eyes. Then it's gone as he blinks. "You were  _poisoned,_  Merlin. Most sensible people would stay abed for weeks after such an event - especially if they're living with a physician." He gestures at the door, the words calm and firm: "Go home."

"But-" The boy glances at the door, thinking of having to face Gaius again so soon after the outburst. But, what other choice is there? It's not like he has anywhere else to spend the night. He doubts Arthur would appreciate him sleeping on the carpet in front of the unlit fireplace.

"That is an order. I can take care of myself."

"You sure of that?" the warlock asks and Arthur rolls his eyes. Honestly, Merlin's more tongue-in-cheek than the rest of the castle staff all put together! The boy ought to be glad Arthur is willing to oversee it.

"Just go and  _rest."_ The man stresses the word as if the warlock were a simpleton, causing him to scowl.

He puts out the nearest candle before grasping the handle. "All right, all right."

"And be on time tomorrow."

"Yes  _sire."_


	12. Part 11: If History Was a Fairytale [Lancelot, part one]

**Part 11:**

# If History Was a Fairytale

**_[Lancelot, part one]_ **

* * *

Mushrooms.

It's not what he's come for really – he's out picking herbs for Gaius again. Apparently the apothecary is out of stock of what the old man needs, so Merlin has no choice but to take what little free time he has after his duties for Arthur and go outside the city to find them. He finished not long ago, but right before leaving he spotted a few yellow chanterelles by the foot of an old birch, and practically dove for them. They're not that easy to find normally, and it's just the start of the season. To his delight he finds not one or two but over a dozen; perfect for a soup or something more  _edible_  than the porridge Gaius almost always serves.

As of late Gaius has been an invaluable support, ever since finding out about his secret – second secret, and hopefully his last. The man has helped him to regain his balance, and now knowing that the physician will never tell anyone and always be there for him, Merlin manages to focus more on his destiny – namely, Arthur, and keeping said Prince out of trouble. All since the goblet incident his senses have been on high alert.

Still Arthur has made no sign of knowing about his magic. (Merlin hasn't really asked. It's not like he can walk up to him and say, " _By the way, did you see anything suspicious in that cave like blue lights for example, that could be connected to me doing magic? Because that had nothing to do with me ...")_

If only he didn't need to hide anything … if only he didn't have anything to hide. But that's just wistful thinking. Of course he needs to hide them, magic and his body. Even if it hurts having to lie. It doesn't matter that it hurts if he wants to live. He simply cannot tell, at least, not yet: perhaps one day the world would be ready to hear (he'd scream it over the mountains if he could:  _I'm magic, I'm a warlock!_ ).

Suddenly there's a noise behind him, startling him out his thoughts, and Merlin twist around to stare across the clearing.

A rustle of leaves … maybe it's just the wind. But there's just something that feels  _off_. Slowly he stands, looking around.

"Hello, is anyone there?" he calls out. No one answers.

The bushes part abruptly as a beast leaps through them. It's as large as a horse if not bigger, with eagle wings and gray fur-feathers and it's screeching at him, opening its beak. Obviously it's also magic.

…  _Not good, not good!_

Merlin drops the basket and summons his magic, speaking the first spell that comes to mind – pushing it outward, hands raised – and for a moment, as the magic hits its chest, the creature halts, wincing at the onslaught of raw force.

Then it raises its head and shrieks again, a terrible high shrill sound, and lunges for him, talons bared.

_Definitely not good!_

"Run!"

Where's that voice come from?

Merlin whips his head around, shocked to see a stranger jumping out seemingly from nowhere – dressed like a peasant, with a satchel over his shoulder, but armed with a sword.

The dark-haired man holds his ground and swings the weapon at the creature, stalling it momentarily. "Run!" he repeats and thrusts upward, toward the beast's neck.

The metal  _cracks_ and breaks with a sharp ear-splitting noise and the man nearly falls backwards, shocked, clenching the useless hilt.

But the beast seems unaffected, there's no injury in its flesh; it's only more angered, lashing out with a growl. Red stains the man's shirt. Merlin cries out on instinct and once again pushes with his magic at the creature like a spear, wordlessly, making it pause again even if the magic doesn't seem to harm it.

The stranger, dropping the broken sword, reaches out to grab Merlin's arm and the warlock can't protest at being manhandled. Herbs completely abandoned, the pair leaps to the left and the short moment the creature is confused as of where its pray has gone, they run around it and away, deeper into the forest where the trees stand thicker.

The beast is on their heels, thundering through the undergrowth and Merlin can feel the wing-beat brush against his back. Together they dive behind a thick fallen tree, taking cover. Then, at losing sight of them, the creature turns suddenly and takes flight. Within second it's disappeared over the treetops.

"It's gone," Merlin gasps.  _What the hell was that thing?!_

The stranger beside him is breathing heavily. Merlin sends him a worried look, eyes widening in alarm when seeing the blood. The man's eyes flicker.

"We need to get you to Gaius, he's a physician. He can help. What's your name?"

"Lancelot." He sounds weak and breathless.

"I'm Merlin."

The man is already losing consciousness and probably cannot hear.

* * *

Upon seeing the servant nearing the gate supporting a barely conscious stranger on his shoulder, one of the guards by the gate stops to question him – it's only to be expected. They wonder if there's a threat out there or if a village has been attacked and the stranger is a refugee, or anything else important to Camelot; it's their duty.

"What's this? Has there been an attack?" the armoured man demands, spear at the ready.

"There was some winged beast in the forest," Merlin explains. "Lancelot drove it off but he's injured; I need to get him to Gaius."

"Of course," the guard says, "you may pass."

But the guard offers no help to carry the wounded man despite the fact he could probably do it without blinking, whereas Merlin isn't that strong – physically, at least – and struggles underneath the burden. Merlin rolls his eyes and subtly pushes with his magic to make Lancelot feel slightly lighter, as if he was a child. Suddenly it's a lot easier to support him, even if it still takes a while to get into the castle and to Gaius' chambers.

The old man is mixing some potions when they enter the room. "Merlin, did you find any of the –  _what on earth happened_?"

Gaius quickly comes over and helps him ease the man onto the bed.

"There was a winged beast … I think it's magical," Merlin explains hurriedly. "I tried fighting it with magic but nothing happened, it barely made the creature pause ... Then Lancelot – that's his name – appeared and fought it with a sword, but that seemed to have no effect. The sword  _broke_  when it touched the creature! Then it injured him with its talons. We had to run for it."

" _Talons_? What kind of creature was it? And you were unable to harm it with magic? Describe it to me," the physician demands as he gathers some towels and opens Lancelot's shirt, starting to clean the wound, putting aside the man's satchel which obviously must be his pack for whatever journey he's made here. It's surprisingly light. The only thing of value the man had brought had been the sword. Maybe, Merlin thinks, he could go back and search for the broken weapon in the forest later: Tom, Gwen's father, would surely be able to repair it, and Merlin wouldn't hesitate to set aside this month's pay for it. It's the least he can do – the man saved his life.

Rapidly, Merlin gives the best physical description he can of the beast. He's never seen anything like it before, but at least Gaius gets the general idea and probably can figure out what exactly it is through one of his books.

He pulls up a pallet to sit beside the bed, watching on concernedly as Lancelot is examined and the wound bandaged. Sweat has broken out on the man's brow. "How is he?"

"The wound itself is superficial and the fever will pass. By the morning, he'll be fine."

Merlin exhales in relief.

"You should tell Arthur of the creature, Merlin," his mentor advises. "It sounds similar to the beast that has been terrorizing the northern villages the last few days – the King just received word of it, a group of refugees arrived while you were gone," he explains at the warlock's surprised stare. "I'm sure Arthur and his knights could use guidance on its location. This must be the closest it's ever been to Camelot."

"I will," he promises, but his stomach growls for attention and he remembers, not without dismay, the mushrooms that he'd been forced to leave behind. "But I'd really like to have something to eat."

* * *

Lancelot wakes up near midnight. His fever has, as Gaius predicted, reduced rapidly even if it lingers around the edges. Merlin is startled out of his vigil and leaps to the bedside, grinning at the man who sits up and looks around confused.

"You're awake! How are you feeling?"

"A bit sore, I must admit," the man says, absently touching his chest where the wound is, wrapped in bandage. He looks around. "Merlin. That's your name, right?" The warlock nods, glad he's remembered. "Where am I?"

"In Gaius' chambers; he's the court physician here in Camelot."

The man's eyes lit up as if filled with new energy and the wound is forgotten as if it's stopped bothering him. "Camelot? It's amazing to finally be here! I've always, ever since I've been a child, dreamed of coming here. Thank you for bringing me."

"It's the least I could do; you saved my life. You can stay for the next few days while you recover. You've always wanted to come here?" the warlock inquires curiously while presenting the man some of the leftovers from dinner, bread and sour cheese and thin watery stew. The man accepts the offering eagerly, obviously very hungry.

"It's my life ambition to be a knight. Oh, I know what you're thinking." Lancelot looks away like he's embarrassed. "That I expect too much. After all, who am I? The King has his pick of the best in the land and I am no one."

"Lancelot, I've seen you fight. You're more than just average! And I'm sure Arthur would agree with me."

"Arthur – as in the Prince?" The man stares at him in astonishment and disbelief and the warlock can't fault him. Looks can be deceiving, and Merlin is to the eye just an average commoner. "You  _know_  Prince Arthur?"

Merlin smirks. "Oh yes."

That moment Gaius looks up from the worktable and he must have been deeply mesmerized by his work, for he looks surprised that the sky is dark outside. "You two need to sleep," he says firmly and stands. "You have work tomorrow, boy, and you mustn't be late again," the old man reminds Merlin, ignoring the protests of: "I'm not  _always_  late!"

"And you, sir, need to rest until your fever has passed. It's been arranged for you to sleep up there." He gestures at the door leading to Merlin's room.

With the help of a servant, as Merlin was away during the day working for Arthur, he's already arranged a mattress on the floor; it will do as for accommodations for now. The man is not so ill that he needs bed in the main room; Gaius would like to have it for he is old and his back aches. When he explains this, Lancelot nods in understanding and assures him the arrangements are more than fine, and thanks them – again – for taking him in.

The physician doesn't completely miss the panicked look flashing over Merlin's face, but it passes quickly and now is not the moment to ask.

"Right, so you'll have to share with me," the warlock murmurs and stands quickly, brushing his hands against his thighs. The tone of voice is one Gaius' recalls having heard just briefly before: it's not one of just nervousness, but of almost-distress and he hopes to have a word with his ward shortly, fearing that something might be wrong.

Lancelot swings his feet over the edge of the bed and stands. He has no trouble walking on his own now. "Thank you for letting me stay."

"Well, we couldn't just leave you there in the woods, could we?" Gaius says and makes a shooing motion with his hand. "Now, go and rest." He returns to finish the ancient text he was reading before, and Merlin leads Lancelot up to the room.

"That mattress there," he says and points. Then, he worries his bottom lip. The man does still have a fever, after all. "You could take the bed if you'd like, instead. You're injured …"

"No, no," Lancelot says and before any protests can leave Merlin's mouth, he settles on the thin straw mattress and pulls off his boots. "I don't want to make any trouble. After sleeping on a forest floor, this will be more than satisfactory."

"Uh, all right then. Do want to borrow some nightclothes? I have a spare shirt, somewhere …" Merlin begins shuffling through his spare clothes. Eventually he finds a rather large, white one at the bottom that probably fits the man's broad shoulders and another for himself.

The man glances down at the worn, blood-soiled garment he's currently wearing. "I'd be grateful, thank you."

As the man begins to change, clearly not finding his presence disturbing as he does so; his chest and arms are defined by muscle that years of training has given him, and tinted with dark hairs down over the bellybutton that continues down under the lining of his trousers. Merlin averts his eyes and glances at the door.

Should he go out there and change? Gaius is there, but he knows his secret … he doesn't want Lancelot to know. (How would the man react if he found out?) Maybe he shouldn't change but just sleep dressed like this, even if it'll be uncomfortable when he wakes up by the morrow …

"I, uh, have to talk with Gaius for a moment," he says awkwardly, fists tightening on the shirt. "I'll be right back."

* * *

The old man doesn't look that surprised to see him, the door closing behind the warlock. Gaius is blowing out the candles and putting back a few books in their shelves.

"Sorry, I just need to–" Merlin waves his hand in an open gesture and shows him the white garment with the other, trying to get him understand what he's saying without actually speaking the words aloud, in case Lancelot might hear.

"I understand, Merlin. I know the situation might not be ideal," Gaius says and lowers his voice so that they can't be overheard. "But I doubt Lancelot would find the rest he needs while I bustle and work early in the morning."

He nods his head. "Um, it's just that, I've never actually shared a room before, apart with my mother, so I never had to worry about …  _hiding_  … Especially right now."

Comprehension dawns in Gaius' eyes. "Are you still having the bleeding?" he asks, lowering his voice.

Merlin blushes. "Yeah. I think it'll stop tomorrow, or the day after that, but still. I can't, you know, when he's there …"

"Oh, I'm sorry Merlin, this is terribly inconvenient. You could sleep down here if you'd prefer."

"No, no, I don't want Lancelot to get suspicious or anything … It'll be fine, if I just, if I'll change down here for time being and take care of, you know, while he's not here, then it'll be fine." The words are rapid, and he's close to prattling again and has to bite his lip to calm down.

If Lancelot got better soon and is planning on staying, which Merlin has a feeling he is, the man must find a job or at least some other place to live. Gaius isn't that fond of freeloaders showing up unexpectedly on his doorstep. And having to share a room too long, easily robbing Merlin of the little privacy he has, will be … complicated. His mentor understands this as well.

"All right then," Gaius says with a nod. "It'll do for now. But if there's anything troubling you, you know you can tell me, Merlin - please don't hesitate."

* * *

It's difficult to sleep, for he's constantly aware of the man lying no more than five feet away, and it doesn't help curling up on his side trying to make an invisible wall between them. Sometimes he hears the sound of shifting and the rustle of clothes or a sigh, and it seemingly takes forever before the man's breathing settles into soft snores. It takes a lot of self-control not to look over his shoulder.

Still, Merlin's body remains tense even if his eyes drop heavily as the hours trickles by. He simply can't keep them open any more.

When morning finally comes, he feels doesn't feel rested at all. It's Gaius that wakes him, shortly after dawn even though he knows Merlin hates early mornings and the Prince won't be awake for another hour.

Lancelot is still asleep.

"I thought you wanted some privacy before you went to see to your duties," Gaius mutters. "There's some breakfast on the table."

"Thank you," Merlin whispers back, glancing at the sleeping man. He'd really, really like to close his eyes for just five more minutes … But. Duties. And Arthur's always so annoyingly grouchy when he's not woken in time for training and then he'll just be more of a dollophead than usual the rest of the day.

"Do you want to take a bath before you go?"

"No, it's fine," Merlin says quietly as he gathers his clothes and steps down into the main room, though it'd be nice to scrub off yesterday's sweat given he hadn't bather last night. "Then I'd just fall asleep and Arthur would yell at me and call me a cabbage for being late again."

* * *

While he's helping the Prince into his armour two hours later, Merlin casually mentions his encounter with the beast in the forest and Lancelot's appearance the day before.

Well, perhaps not  _that_  casually, because the Prince pauses in mid-movement as he's adjusting his cape, to stare at him in disbelief. When Merlin remains serious and still at the inquiring gaze, his expression changes to one of wonder mixed with anger.

"You went to the forest all by yourself, completely unarmed, even though there's a beast on the loose?"

He sounds more upset than Merlin had expected.

"I didn't actually know about the beast at the time," the warlock points out in his defense. "And I go to the forest all the time! I could've defended myself; I'm not entirely useless you know."

Arthur glares at him clearly showing that he does not agree with that statement, at all. "You are an  _idiot_ , Merlin. Truly. If the beast hadn't left, what would you have done?"

"Well, it  _did_  leave. And Lancelot was there, and he was armed. He fought the beast." He can't exactly say that he'd used his magic and surely could've come up with an emergency spell if the man never had appeared with his courage and sword.

"He fought it? Who is he exactly?"

Naturally the Prince is curious; a simple peasant would have no reason to wield a sword! Most peasants would never even afford to own one, let alone have the knowledge to wield it.

"I … I don't really know, really. I didn't ask." The conversation last night had been cut short and the man hadn't told him anything more before going to sleep. Maybe he wasn't a commoner at all … But Merlin doesn't know.

"Find out," Arthur orders and furrows his brows thoughtfully. "If he's really fought the beast I'd like meeting him. We could use another swordsman against it. And if he's a nobleman – which, personally, I highly doubt – he might even be interested in trying out as a knight. In fact, why don't you see to that he's present to watch during the tryouts today."

Merlin bobs his head up and down as he nods eagerly. Lancelot will be overjoyed to hear this! "Yes, sire, right away."

* * *

Returning to the physician's chambers as Arthur's ordered, the finds Lancelot is up and about. The fever's gone now and he's stretching his muscles while having a quiet conversation with Gaius, staying out of the way of the old man's work. It's clear that he's restless, even if the man is very polite and stays indoors as he's told.

"Well, I spoke with the Prince …" He pauses, feigning disappointment.

"No." Lancelot's shoulders slump.

Merlin can't hold it anymore, breaking into a wide grin. "He said he wants to meet you! In fact he wants you to come and watch the knighting tryouts right now."

"What? Yes!" Lancelot is so sincere and, while seeming a rather silent and personal man, he lays an arm around Merlin's shoulders and squeezes lightly, a half-embrace, in excitement. "Oh, I cannot thank you enough, Merlin."

Merlin grins like a fool, heat spreading over his cheeks and up to his ears. "It was nothing, really. Only. One thing. You wouldn't happen to be a nobleman, would you?"

The man begins to laugh as if the very idea was preposterous. "Me, a nobleman? No, no."

"Oh," Merlin bites his lip. Of course, Lancelot sees and the joyous expression turns into a frown.

"What's wrong?"

"Only noblemen can become knights. It is the First Code of Camelot," intones Gaius from the workbench, where he's sat silent reading a book until now, studying the conversation out of the corner of his eye. "It's also the most important rule regarding knighthood, at least in the eyes of the King."

"That's completely unfair!" Merlin exclaims furiously. "Being a nobleman doesn't have anything with being a good fighter or good knight! Why'd they even come up with it?"

Gaius' explanation is collected and calm. "When Uther created the knights he needed men he could trust, which were the nobles who'd sword him allegiance. Thus only they and sons of these noblemen could seek and pursue knighthood in Camelot. It is what ties the knights together – it is a law that has never been broken." He turns to Lancelot regretfully. "I am truly sorry, Lancelot, but you will not be accepted unless you have noble blood in your veins."

Silence hang heavy and thick over the room. Eventually, Merlin moves, as does Lancelot, inching toward the door.

"I suppose I should go back to Arthur, he's at the training fields now," the warlock says with a sigh, disheartened. He'd had this tiny, tiny spark of hope that Lancelot would actually have some noble blood in his veins, despite the low odds. To his surprise, instead of announcing he's to pack or leave, Lancelot raises a hand to stop him.

"Wait, I'll come with you. I am here after all, and even if I may not become a knight, I at least would like the chance of seeing the Prince himself in action. Just let me put on my boots."

* * *

There's intent in Arthur's stride as he nears the newest knight-to-be, a rather young red-haired man. His voice is powerful and arrogant as always. Merlin stands back in the sidelines ready with towels and filled water-flasks, and Lancelot is standing next to him eyes fixed on the Prince, awe-struck almost.

"Right, you jumped up dung beetle, this is it. The final test. Pass this and you're a knight of Camelot. Fail … and you're no one. You shall face the most feared of all foes, the ultimate killing machine. You shall face me."

Rolling his eyes, Merlin lowers his voice so the man standing next to him can hear; "Not at all bigheaded, is he?"

Lancelot's smile at the joke is tense, almost like  _he's_  the one to face the Prince in the arena.

"Grummond, second son of lord Wessex. Are you ready to face your challenge?"

"I am, sire," the redhead replies with conviction and both men draws their swords.

"Your time starts now."

An elderly servant turns the hourglass resting on a table near one of the tents set up by the edge of the field; the two men start circling each other. It doesn't take long for one of them to pounce. The redhead doesn't hesitate, and nearly lands a blow on Arthur's leg.

But the Prince is swift and with only two quick blows he has the other man on the ground; Merlin winces in sympathy for Grummond. He knows they're fighting with real and not dulled swords now, unlike at training, and he's pretty sure that Arthur managed to pierce the chainmail, even if the wound isn't anywhere deadly.

The weapon flies out of the redhead's hand and Arthur stand over him, laying the tip of his sword against the man's neck. "Do you give up?"

"I give up, sire," the man wheezes out.

The whole thing is over in less than thirty seconds. The on-lookers applauds for their Prince, but Merlin sees how tense Arthur is, the disappointment marring his face – he's just lost another candidate, another could've-been-knight of Camelot. Another opportunity missed.

"Take him away," the Prince orders before backing away and letting two guards escort the disappointed man off the field. He gestures at his servant to come over. "Merlin, water."

"I'll wait here," Lancelot says, busy looking around inspecting the field and especially the table where some weaponry and armour has been laid out. Two knights - of which one Merlin recognizes as sir Leon - are conversing sitting in the grass next to it; obviously they've come to observe the tryout. Lancelot looks like he's itching with want to go up the table and pick up a sword.

And he also looks so  _disappointed,_ even if he's trying to hide it. For he's knowing that he won't be able to be a knight, not ever; that all of his dreaming and training has been for  _nothing_. All because of his blood, a thing he has no control of. Now, there's no choice for him but to walk away.

 _No_ , Merlin tells himself firmly,  _I can change that. I can make his dream come true._

* * *

The Prince is running a hand through his hair in frustration and accepts the water flask without thanks, taking a deep sip and ignoring Merlin's mutters of him being a prat.

"Another one.  _Another_! I can't believe how useless they're being. They claim to have trained well and hard, and yet, when they show up they're utterly incompetent with a sword, and the lance and the mace and  _everything_  they should be good at," he rages. "How am I supposed to protect this kingdom with men like that? They know nothing of being a knight: they have neither the skill nor the courage, the fortitude, the discipline …"

"I'm sure there are loads of good fighters out there ready to become knights," the warlock says. "In fact, I know one's here right now."

Arthur sends him an odd look, flitting briefly across his face. "So, you have spoken with him - Lancelot?"

"Yes," Merlin responds. This is his chance, and he leaps at it: "He's come to Camelot to be a knight, that's why he's here."

"And he's a noble?" The tone is decidedly skeptical.

"Yeah, he's the son of a lord in, in Northumbria," the warlock improvises, keeping his fingers crossed as he awaits Arthur's reaction.

He hopes there are lords there. In Northumbria. And that no one will think it odd that one of said lord's sons suddenly has arrived at Camelot without warning. Surely there must be lords there? Oh god, Merlin really hopes he's not jumped too far ahead and ruined everything!

The Prince's eyebrows climb up his forehead. "Truly?" He studies the man standing across the field: he has a steady posture, even if his clothes are worn and looks like a peasant's. If he truly  _is_  a noble, then there's a chance to gain another knight: a possibility Arthur would never pass up. Merlin knows this for sure, which is why the boy would tell him about this.

"Well. I shall have a word with him. Not now," he adds when seeing the expression on Merlin's face: it reminds him of an overly excited puppy. It truly is not well suited on the Prince's Manservant, not at least when it concerns some man he's met just a day ago. "I have a meeting with father and the council. Bring him tomorrow, at training, and don't forget his seal of nobility."

* * *

The next time he meets Lancelot, it is lunchtime and Merlin has a short break to eat and catch his breath before he must return to Arthur. There's a messy chamber to clean. The Prince himself is busy; there's another meeting with the King and the rest of council, probably about the beast and how to get rid of it, but since he's just a servant Merlin doesn't know the all the details. His only clue is that Gaius is researching on it now to be able to give good advice, for he's the most knowledgeable on these kinds of things among the men in the King's circle.

Lancelot is standing looking over the city through an open window as Merlin takes seat by the table, grabbing some bread and cheese.

"Why do you want to be a knight so much?" he asks curiously.

The man turns away from the magnificent view to face him.

"When I was young," Lancelot begins, "my village was attacked by raiders. It was …" A shadow falls over the man's face; he looks away, eyes clouded by the memory and he exhales heavily. "Men, women, children, they were killed where they stood. My mother, my father … It was by chance that I survived, along with a few others of the children: we fled into the forest, and wandered until we came upon another village that kind enough to take us in. That was the moment I decided I wanted to learn how to fight. Never again would I stand hopeless in the face of evil. I would protect those who could not defend themselves. So I picked up the art of sword-fighting; I taught myself and travelled around the land in search for guidance. When I was ready, I headed for Camelot."

He sighs. "Now it seems my journey has come to an end. For nothing."

" _No_ ," Merlin says firmly. "No, I'll make this right. You deserve a chance to be a knight, Lancelot. Whatever is in my power, I'll do it to make sure you're given that chance."

* * *

It was during his first week at Camelot that he found the royal library, but not until now has he had any need, or chance, to go there: whenever Gaius needs to know something he usually can find it in his own rather large collection.

Finding the library was a pleasant surprise. The librarian, on the other hand, was not. The old man is grumpier than Gaius, and absolutely does  _not_  want some peasant boy touching any of his precious books.

So here he is now, at midnight when he's supposed to sleep, sneaking into the dusty room – he can smell parchment and candle-wax and ink. It's completely dark. Geoffrey of Monmouth must be asleep in the chamber across the hall. Even if he could use his magic to get inside, he knows no spell to make it guide him to the right book. But there  _has_  to be something useful here, he's certain of it. Geoffrey is the Court Genealogist after all.

If catching him Gaius would most certainly have his head. Using some magic he'd snuck out of his room and past the sleeping physician, but he needs to return just as quietly, before Gaius goes to wake him. If he finds his ward's bed empty there'll be uproar for sure.

With steady eyes he starts scanning the shelves. Thankfully, they're more sorted than at Gaius' chambers. Still there are so many shelf-covered walls and as he reaches the end of one, he finds to his dismay that there's another wall, and another around the corner. There must be  _thousands_  of books and scrolls in total. There's  _no way_  he could go through them all before morning.

Well. There's no choice but to get started.

Minutes trickles into hours. It's steadily nearing morning when he finds it:  _Annals of the Kings and Lords of Northumbria._  Perfect!

Pulling it down and opening it reveals, by the end, loads and loads of family trees, reaching from far, far back in time all up until recently. Merlin settles by the desk, leaving the book open at the page and pulling out the piece of parchment he's borrowed from Gaius – the old man had given him a warning look along with it, probably suspecting something was up, not believing Merlin's white lie about having to use it for his writing lessons with the Prince.

But this is something he simply has to do. And he  _is_  being very careful, as he's promised his guardian more times than he cares to remember – no one will suspect a thing.

" **Ic us bisen hræd tán hwanon _."_**

The parchment glows.

* * *

Merlin returns to his room while rubbing at his eyes tiredly. Another sleepless night to be followed by another day of work, work, work ... Ugh. Arthur'll probably be unbearably prattish again and if he demands to spar Merlin won't last for more than five seconds, he knows (unless he uses a tiny bit of magic).

Placing the fake seal under the mattress, he peels off his boots and his jacket – he'd changed into a nightshirt earlier this evening, to not arouse Gaius' suspicion – and snuggles into bed with a yawn. He might not sleep for long, but it'll be worth it.

* * *

Despite knowing Arthur won't be pleased with him for being late, Merlin waits patiently until Gaius leaves the room as he needs to run an errand. As soon as the door closes behind the old man's back the warlock pulls out what he's kept hidden under his jacket.

"What's that?" Lancelot asks.

Merlin unrolls the parchment with a grin, revealing bold letters and colourful images painted across it: a family coat of arms. " _This_  is your seal of nobility."

"I…I don't understand."

"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Lancelot, fifth son of Lord Eldred of Northumbria."

Utterly silent, Lancelot  _stares_.

"Don't worry, I've done some research. Apparently he's not connected with Camelot for years, has loads of daughters beside his sons so no one will raise an eyebrow at another child appearing, and none of his sons serve as knights here. So there you go. A perfect cover."

The man abruptly holds up his hands in objection. "No. No, I can't. I am no nobleman, especially not a son of Lord Eldred!"

Shoulders slumping, the warlock rolls up the parchment again. "Oh right. So you don't want to be a knight then. I suppose I should get rid of this …" He stalks toward the fire burning in the small hearth across the room, which is used for cooking, but the man's desperate voice stops him.

"Of course I want to be a knight!" Lancelot exclaims heatedly. "But the rules-"

Merlin wants to scream and struggles to keep his voice in check, but it's just frustrating: all of these restrictions and impossibilities stacking up in front of him and in front of Lancelot who doesn't deserve having to walk away, not now. Not now when he's so close to his dream. "Damn the rules! The rules are  _wrong_. You're a strong skilled fighter, you have fought so hard to get here – you  _deserve_  this, Lancelot."

"But it's a lie. It's against everything the knights stand for."

"You have as much right to be a knight as any man. I know it."

"This is  _breaking the_   _law,_  Merlin …"

"We're not breaking them; we're just bending them a little," Merlin corrects him, stubbornly. "You'll get your foot over the threshold, but after that you'll be judged on your merit alone and I am  _certain_  you will succeed, because you earned it, noble or not. I can't change any laws, but  _you_  can start changing the way things are done here – if you let me help you."

"This is a dangerous game to play."

The servant's eyes widen. Lancelot worried, not just about himself; he's worried about  _him_  getting caught up in this as well and them both landing in a disaster. The concern is somewhat warming, but now it's beside the point. He can't exactly tell him he's magic and used that magic to produce this fake seal, and that it cannot possibly be traced back to him - and that in the worst case he can use his magic in self-defense. He can't tell Lancelot any of this to sooth him.

"I've got this covered. Listen to me, all you got to do is give Arthur this and wave around your sword a bit or whatever else knights do." Even if usually tightly laced-up Lancelot rolls his eyes at that and Merlin quirks a smile as the mood shifts a little, the atmosphere lightening somewhat. "He'll see you're worthy, and no one will care once you're knighted."

"I don't want anyone to get into trouble for my sake, Merlin."

"I won't get into trouble. Come on, we've got to fix you some clothes and armour, and a sword. I have a friend who can help with that."

* * *

They've agreed to tell a story, to keep up the pretense (albeit it takes some convincing to get Lancelot to concur): Lancelot is a travelling nobleman whose weapons and armour were lost in the fight against the winged beast. It explains not only his simple way of dress but also why he so acutely needs new ones, and currently is standing in Guinevere's modest home, with the maidservant taking his measurements. Merlin is helping out by taking notes – he doesn't like standing around being useless.

"This is very kind of you …"

"Gwen," she fills in while wrapping the measuring tape neatly around the man's waist. "It's short for Guinevere."

"Ah. Then, thank you, Guinevere."

"Oh don't thank me, thank Merlin!" she says with a smile. "Merlin would do anything for anyone, wouldn't you Merlin? I mean – not  _anything_. Obviously I don't think that. Uhm. Could you raise your arms, please? Thank you." The words are rushed and Merlin hides a smile behind his palm. "Sorry. I think it's great that Merlin has got you this chance. We need men like you."

"You do?"

"Well, not me personally," she hurries to say, "but you know … Camelot. Camelot needs knights. Not just Prince Arthur and his kind, but ordinary people like Merlin and I."

"Well, I'm not a knight yet, my Lady."

"But you  _are_  a nobleman - and I am not a lady, please, sir. Just Gwen."

Lancelot looks slightly embarrassed. "Sorry, my –"

"All right, we're done," Gwen hurriedly cuts him off and from this angle Merlin glimpses her cheeks burning underneath the warm tan of her skin. "I should have these ready shortly, and I shall see to that you are given a sword and chainmail. It was nice meeting you, Lancelot."

She offers her hand to shake, but Lancelot takes it and kisses the knuckles bowing his head as if to a royal lady, and Merlin watches the scene in bemusement, but also with the tinges of an unwelcome feeling that taste foul and bitter in his mouth, and he pushes it quickly away.

It's none of their faults. It's just, seeing the two – freely, albeit awkwardly and carefully, speaking in such a manner with each other and sharing such looks and touches, sparks a deep  _longing_  at the bottom of Merlin's stomach and he can't seem to will it away.

When they leave, the feeling still churns in his belly and he can't find a natural way to start conversation. It's Lancelot who finally breaks the silence as they cross the courtyard.

"She seems lovely – Guinevere."

"Oh, she is," Merlin says and smiles slightly, though he struggles to keep the tone light, feeling ashamed about the bitterness lingering in his chest. "She's wonderful, and the best seamstress in Camelot I guarantee."

"Are you two … involved?" The man sends him a meaningful glance, and the warlock's eyes widen.

"What? Oh – oh, no!" Merlin shakes his head. "No, we're just friends, very good friends. Nothing like that, no."

 _She wouldn't want me anyway, even if I felt something for her_ , he thinks quietly, glancing at Lancelot through his lashes. The man appears to be in thought. There's just something about him and Gwen, almost like they'd been  _meant_  to meet - that bitterness still churning in his stomach making his thoughts dark, Merlin shakes his head. _It doesn't matter._

"Let's head back to Gaius' and have something to eat."

* * *

True to her word, Gwen convinces her father to give Lancelot one of the swords and chainmail he has in store; as is natural to him, being so noble, the man refuses to have it freely and insists on paying with the few coins he has. Gwen only put up a small fight about that. Even if she's so endlessly kind, she and her father needs to eat, and a servant's income isn't much to live by. That's one of the reasons why Merlin is so glad he's living with Gaius; if he'd have to actually pay for housing and food all by himself, his meager payment wouldn't go a very long way.

The following day, the woman arrives at Gaius' rooms, arms full: there's a long tunic and simple cape, the mail and the sword. Along with a pair of old vambraces (they're Arthur's old ones that haven't been used for years so surely no one will miss them), and a simple, unmarked shield that Merlin's snuck down and borrowed from the armoury. Lancelot's outfit is complete. When wearing it, he stands tall and proud and his steps are certain as he nears the training grounds. He holds the seal in a white-knuckled grip.

"Well, you certainly look the part," Merlin greets smiling at him. He waves at him to come over. Like yesterday he's standing waiting for Arthur's orders, armed with towels and water and other things that the Prince or the knights might want once training is over.

"I don't feel it," Lancelot says.

A few minutes later the session is over: the men stops fighting imaginary foes and disperse across the field. Merlin nudges Lancelot's arm, pointing at where the Prince is standing by the sword rack, placing down his weapon. "Here's your chance. Go for it."

Merlin keeps his fingers crossed as the man walks over to the Prince. He's not close enough to hear the conversation passing, but Arthur takes a look at the seal, saying something at which Lancelot bows his head.

Then, abruptly, the Prince has smacked the man across the chest and Lancelot's lying on the grass; Arthur looks smug, and there are some amused chuckles from nearby knights who are watching. Merlin hurries up to them.  _What was that?_ he wonders, a bit angry and annoyed with the Prince.  _He's still such a prat! … Oh no – maybe he saw the seal was fake and won't accept Lancelot, or –_

As he reaches them though, he hears Arthur say, "Sluggish reaction. In a battle field you'd be dead by now. Come back when you're ready."

Lancelot stands, hand resting on the hilt of his sword and he bows to the Prince. His bearings truly are like those of a nobleman. "I am ready now, sire."

Arthur raises his eyebrow in a princely manner. "Are you? Very well. You may begin by cleaning out the stables."

The dark-haired man bows his neck again. "Sire."

The Prince, seeing his manservant nearby, gestures him to come over. Merlin approaches slightly warily. Is Arthur going to lecture him about something or give him some extremely tedious chore?

"Merlin, take Lancelot to the Chief of Staff and have him explain his new duties."

"Right, I'll do that. Anything else?"

Arthur gives him a pointed look and Merlin rolls his eyes, sighing.

"Anything else,  _sire_?"

"That's marginally better. Yes, go and sweep my chambers, and prepare me a bath when training's done."

Then the Prince takes his leave cloak whipping behind him in a royal manner, to continue with training, and the squires and knights scattered about the field jump to their feet, suddenly fully alert. Meanwhile, Merlin takes Lancelot aside, guiding him from the field, noticing the man's glances over his shoulder.

"… I've told you; he is a giant prat," Merlin mutters and Lancelot quirks a smile, weakly. "You did great though! He's accepted you!"

"Does all of his knights clean out the stables?" the man retorts rhetorically.

"Not really," the warlocks admits. "Though I've seen him give such orders to some newcomers before. He's just testing you. To see how you follow orders and stuff. Most of his men have served him for years, it's taken them a while to become knights – you know, he really wants you to become one, and fast, that's why he's putting you on trial like this. You're the only around who has fought the winged beast and he wants, no,  _needs_  a good swordsman like you on his side to defend Camelot from it."

Lancelot's posture is a little less tense after the compliment. "Right then, I suppose I'd better change out of the chainmail before going to the talk with the Chief of Staff."

* * *

"I'm sorry about Lancelot. I see you were upset."

Merlin looks up as his mentor enters the room, carrying his old medicine bag, having just returned from a visit to Sir Pellinore who needs treatment for an old battle wound. He feigns a casual shrug. He's sure that Gaius would be upset to find out the truth and, while holding him in the dark forever certainly won't be possible if Lancelot  _is_  knighted, Merlin just don't want anything to ruin Lancelot's chances now.

"Oh, but you know – that's life. You win some, you lose some."

"You're taking it very well, I have to say," the physician remarks, taking seat by the desk and starting to sort bottles at once. "Very maturely."

"Thank you, Gaius."

That moment the door opens swiftly, creaking on its hinges, and a man completely covered in dirt smelling like horse manure stumbles over the threshold, momentarily leaning against the door frame for support.

"How'd it go?" Merlin asks cheerfully.

"Ugh," is the only thing the man manages to say, staring blearily. He looks completely exhausted. Not entirely steady on his feet, he stumbles into the antechamber. Merlin looks after him with pity, and figures he'd fetch a bath for him; Lancelot probably had no idea how hard work it could be to work at Camelot's castle prior his arrival.

Gaius gives Merlin a  _look_  and he winces slightly. "He found work at the stables," the warlock explains vaguely.

"Ah, I see." His mentor's brows furrow in a dark frown, the gaze so sharp and dangerous there's no point in even trying to lie. "And the truth before I lose my temper?"

The servant awkwardly shifts on his feet. "He's, er, trying out for the knights."

" _Merlin_!" Gaius berates angrily. "The first Code of Camelot has never been broken for any man. What have you done?"

"All right, I bent the rules a little. But the rules are wrong and unfair!"

"You bent the rules? Using magic, I presume?

"It was nothing, honestly, more of a  _trick_  than actual-"

Before he can finish the sentence, Gaius has furiously cut across, voice low: "You magic is not a  _toy_ , Merlin! It's not for you to use or abuse as you see fit!"

"I know, I know," the warlock sighs, shoulders slumping.

Gaius' voice softens slightly. "Then why'd you do it?"

"I owe Lancelot my life, and I'm paying for that debt the only way I can, by giving him the opportunity he deserves. If you want to punish me for it, go ahead."

For once Gaius remains silent, but Merlin feels little relief that he's let it slip. Lancelot's not knighted yet.

* * *

The council chambers are cold and quiet and every man's eyes are fixed upon the prince who alongside two of his eldest knights gives their report. The King looks grim, a shadow over his face.

"There's been another attack. The beast was sighted heading for Willowdale."

"Greensdale, then Willowdale … The creature is heading south, toward the mouth of the valley," Uther states darkly. "We must not let it come any nearer to Camelot."

Arthur bows his head. "I shall prepare my knights right away, sire. Have faith, father, we shall be ready."

* * *

The early morning sun glares down at the courtyard and the armoured men, all wearing long blood-red capes. Merlin pauses as he's washing the windows in Arthur's chambers to observe them. Arthur walks up to stand before them and they bow as one; the Prince is regal and tall and sounds calm, collected. From this distance Merlin can't make out his face. He knows the Prince is anything but calm, though.

The winged beast has tormented another two villages near the city and there's no telling how many casualties there'd be, were it to enter the city. The safety of the city and the kingdom is one of Arthur's main duties; of course he's upset. Naturally he'd ignored all of Merlin's attempts to soothe him and instead piled a heap of chores on him and told him to stop bothering. After all, he's just a servant - what could a  _servant_  know about defending a kingdom from magical beasts?

Arthur's voice carries strongly between the stone walls and Merlin opens the window a bit more, leaning out to hear more clearly. "The beast is heading for Camelot. It's fast and agile, but big enough to hit and hit hard. Starting today your training routines will concentrate on an attack strategy. We don't have much time. Dismissed."

The knights bow again and start filing out. The courtyard is relatively empty, there are just a handful of guards and servants about, but a figure clad in a pristine white shirt catches his eye. Lancelot. The man walks up to the Prince, remaining half a step behind him as is only proper and bow his head. They begin talking but now in normal tones, not like when Arthur was giving orders, and the sound won't carry up all the way to the second-story window.

If only he could somehow hear them ... surely there must be a spell for that? Merlin's eyes narrow in concentration, window scrubbing entirely forgotten. He's not read about any hearing-enhancing spell in his magic book yet, so he decides to improvise.

" **Níed hléodor mec _,"_** he mumbles, staring at the two men,  _channeling_  his magic in their direction. At first nothing seems to happen. But then, sounds starts rushing at him; the faint wind whines loudly and the footsteps on the stone below echoes like a drum.

It takes a moment for him to focus.

"…ything I can do, Sire?" Lancelot is saying, standing with his back to the window. The words are slightly jarred at the edges. "I am aware that in the event of battle, only a knight may serve."

"That's correct, Lancelot," answers Arthur. "And you are not yet a knight. Which is why I'm bringing your test forward. You'll face me this afternoon."

Merlin can't hide his gleeful smile.  _Yes!_

* * *

He manages to convince Gwen to come with him and watch – not that much convincing is needed once he mentions it is Lancelot's tryout. The two servants stand in the sidelines among many others who have gathered to watch, both knights and peasants. Everyone wants to see the Prince fight, and they are curious at this newcomer, especially since rumour has it he has already fought the winged beast.

"Here we are: your final challenge. Succeed and you join the elite. Fail and your journey will each its end. To determine it, you are to face the most dangerous of foes in single combat," Arthur's voice booms with authority; Merlin barely hides it as he rolls his eyes. The man sounds just as arrogant as usual. Gwen notices the reaction and glares at her friend like quietly saying  _'He's the Prince, of course he's the most dangerous of foes!'_ and Merlin tried to imitate a kicked puppy with little success.

"Lancelot, fifth son of Lord Eldred of Northumbria - your time starts now."

The hourglass is turned, and the two men take up battle positions. It's Lancelot who initiates, stepping forth and swinging toward Arthur's chest; the Prince sidesteps smoothly, and meets the blow with his own sword. The clang of metal against metal echoes across the training field.

Ten seconds into the fight, Arthur almost lands a blow on the other man's head. By his side Merlin hears Gwen draw a sharp breath and then her hands fly up and buries in his jacket, knuckles whitening.

He flinches back in instinct, and then, there's a small flare of panic building in his belly as the woman's side presses against his. Gwen – well,  _no_   _one_  to be honest – rarely comes this physically close to him and he's always been rather glad, since it's easier to hide his secrets then. What if she notices-?

But then she blushes and releases him. "Oh, sorry," Gwen gasps. A frown of worry remains on her brow.

"Don't worry," Merlin assures her quietly, understanding her concerns. "Lancelot's a great fighter; he can do this."

Forty seconds in, Arthur manages to land not a blow with his sword but his fist, straight on Lancelot's jaw. Many onlookers wince in sympathy as the dark-haired man stumbles back, dazed, his helmet askew. He lands on the grass heavily.

Smug and cold, the Prince sheathes his sword, staring down at the man for a moment and shaking his head.

"What a shame," Arthur says and turns away. Merlin narrows his eyes in suspicion. Why's the Prince turning his back? Isn't that a stupid thing to do, even if your enemy is on the ground? Lancelot still has his sword clenched in his hand, and now Arthur's back is all open and vulnerable for an attack …

Then suddenly comprehension dawns on the warlock. Arthur might have expressed doubts about believing in Lancelot's bloodline, but still given him a chance, and now, now he doesn't want the man to miss it. It's the only explanation, because the flaw in the Prince's guard is so large is simply must be deliberate.

The servant glances at the sandglass: it's nearly there, nearly one minute now – just a few seconds left…

Lancelot jerks into action, and in one smooth movement, sword tightly gripped, he's knocked Arthur off his feet. Breath is knocked out of the Prince's lungs, and he lies there looking winded and surprised. The loud thud as Arthur lands makes Merlin bite his lower lip without thinking – that looked like quite a harsh fall. Swiftly Lancelot moves to stand above him pointing the tip of the weapon against the metal plate on the Prince's chest.

"Do you submit, sire? Do you submit?"

The guards standing by the side of the field leap forward, distressed for the Prince's safety. Merlin has never before seen any knight (or knight-to-be) knock Arthur down like that before, except sir Leon, and the man has been at court for years and is well trusted: no guards have ever intervened in a duel between them before. This is new. The warlock worriedly inches forward – what if Lancelot's arrested for this? What if Arthur won't knight him after all?

The armoured men wrench Lancelot off Arthur, who gets up with a stormy look on his face. Next to him Merlin feels Gwen tense up anxiously. The Prince puts his sword to Lancelot's chest, the tip grazing the blue tunic and chainmail beneath.

"On your knees!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The spell marked * is in Old English loosely meaning "force/bring sounds [to] me". I'm a complete amateur at Old English and do not claim it to be correct._


	13. Part 12: Knight of Hearts [Lancelot, part two]

**Part 12:**

# Knight of Hearts

**_[Lancelot, part two]_ **

* * *

"Arise sir Lancelot, knight of Camelot," the King commands and Lancelot obeys, his hauberk gleaming in the light of the hundreds of candles spread throughout the hall.

Applause bounces between the walls. Merlin joins them heartily but Arthur, standing next to him tall and princely with a simple golden crown upon his head, looks thoughtful and does not cheer as loudly. When catching the expression on the Prince's face, guilt begins to gnaw at the warlock's insides.  _Yet another lie to add to the list …_

But letting Arthur or anyone else know the truth would be to crush Lancelot's dream. It would be irrevocable, and Merlin is certain that the feeling that would cause, the  _knowing_  that  _he's_  responsible for ruining Lancelot's knighthood, would be ten times worse worse than what he's feeling now – he can't let himself delve on it. Not now. Tonight is a night of merrymaking, not dark afterthoughts.

So he turns to the Prince with a wide grin, hiding any earlier thoughts. "Why the long face, sire?" he asks cheerfully, just loud enough for only the Prince to hear.

"Never mind it, Merlin. Go and enjoy yourself tonight. Just do not act like a  _complete_  idiot - you are my servant after all, not court jester even if you could apply to such a position without trouble," Arthur says, straight-faced.

"Ha ha, very funny, sire. I mean – of course I'll behave," Merlin adds when the Prince glares at him. "No acting like a dollophead. Sire."

Arthur gives him a final warning look before he adopts a calm, collected expression, a small smile on his face. He looks the perfect proper Prince and his gait is certain and strong as he walks up to congratulate Lancelot, as the King finishes the dubbing.

It's like a signal, and people begin to disperse and chatter: the celebrations have begun.

Right before he can get lost in the crowd and search for Gwen, Merlin stands aside for a moment with Gaius. Despite the cheering around him the old man looks grim.

"Look at him, Gaius." Merlin gestures at the knight, who is joining Arthur and conversing with him contently. The man seems to be basking in the glow of renown. "Doesn't Lancelot deserve this moment?"

"I never said he didn't. But destiny and desserts is not the same thing. You played God, Merlin: you set him on a path of  _your_  choosing," Gaius warns him quietly, so they cannot be overheard. "Tonight you brought him triumph, but who knows what the future may hold?"

His mentor is always so serious! He's been really careful when choosing the name and bloodlines for Lancelot, the magic's subtle and no one knows, and Lancelot's dream is coming true: the thing he's fought for so long.

"I don't know what it said on your invitation, but on mine it said  _celebration_ ," he says, daring to be tongue-in-cheek, and Gaius' serious face cracks into a faint smile.

"Point taken," the physician admits and starts drawing away, but not before reminding him: "Don't come back too late tonight."

Merlin grins. "Don't worry, I won't."

* * *

The night is one of light and joy and fine ale. Arthur cannot believe his, or Camelot's, luck; Lancelot seems to have appeared out of nowhere and taken the city by storm, even if Arthur has some private doubts about the man's bloodline ... But one does not simple lie about such a thing!

For a moment, Arthur thinks of it and frowns. The circumstances are admittedly curious - and convenient. Almost  _too_  convenient. But Lancelot does not strike him as a liar. Neither does Merlin, even if the boy was  _very_  eager to see Lancelot become a knight. That might just have to do with the fact that the man fought the winged beast and thus saved the servant's life, a thought that makes the Prince's frown deepen.

 _How_  exactly had Lancelot fought the beast and escaped still alive, while so far the creature has completely evaded his knights' every attempt to kill it? And what was his idiot servant doing that far into the woods all on his own? Arthur hadn't even been told he'd been outside the city! Oh, the fool. He was damn lucky Lancelot showed up the moment he did.

Besides of already having proven to be an incredibly good swordsman, Lancelot is also gallant and honourable, and knows well about propriety (unlike  _some people_ ), and there's just an air about him that makes Arthur feel confident that the man is capable and trustable. Admittedly, Arthur is curious. The man has mentioned travelling far and wide, but given little detail, and the Prince has a sense there's something dark, a memory behind the brown eyes shadowing his past.

However, he is  _far_  too polite – well, not as far as the King is concerned, but the man should need to loosen up some, at least in the presence of his equals and during a feast like this. Tomorrow will be a day of fighting, as the beast must be taken care of. Tonight is a chance of relaxation and carefreeness that is rare in court, which Lancelot soon shall know if he doesn't already.

The Prince lets his gaze slide across the room. It is crowded but feels more open than at the most recent feast, since the tables have been moved to the sides giving room for a large dance-floor. Musicians play in a corner, and more than a few couples have begun to dance. Others stand around and converse with the people around them. The atmosphere is one that Arthur loves.

Three people on the other side of the room catch his eye; two women and a young man beside them. Arthur furrows his brows. So that's where Merlin's snuck off to, instead of staying nearby to keep his cup filled! Honestly, that lazy servant. He's the worst one Arthur has  _ever_  had.

The boy is talking to Morgana's maid, Guinevere, quite vividly he can tell by their hand movements and facial expressions. Most surprisingly however (or, on afterthought, perhaps not) is Morgana herself, joining the two smoothly. While she wouldn't mind talking to commoners, she usually avoids doing so while in the same room as the King. Then again, Uther has had a few cups of ale and is in deep conversation with Geoffrey of Monmouth and isn't looking their way.

She's wearing a very revealing dress again, blue and fiercely golden, with low hems and delicate edges – gorgeous as always. But the sight does not send the Prince's heart aflutter. Perhaps, one time, long ago it would have – when Arthur was younger and more naïve, as he'd watched her from afar and wondered if they had a future together. Most people definitely thought so. His father had not spoken about it aloud, but the kingdom expects their Prince to marry soon and Morgana would be a perfect match in the people's eyes.

Once he'd probably also be disappointed to know that he now would find that the woman couldn't spark such passion in his heart or soul, that he saw her beauty but never felt any urges or  _desire._  It's … strange. How can he not? Every man who's ever laid eyes on her probably wishes to have her! And yet, Arthur feels no such stirrings when thinking of, or looking at her. He cares for her dearly, even if he'd be the last person to admit it, but still. No carnal desires fill his body at the mention of her name.

Momentarily his eyes flit over to Morgana's maidservant, standing next to the lady. She's rather pretty, he guesses, dark curls bouncing around her face as she laughs at something Merlin's said – if it turned out she had a man interested in her it wouldn't be surprising.

Merlin grins at whatever it was; an internal joke probably, one that Arthur would never find amusing. The boy's whole face seems to light up, and his cheeks are slightly rosy as if he's already had too much to drink (he's probably a terrible lightweight) and the skin around his eyes crinkle slightly as he laughs – the sound is too far away to hear, but he doesn't need to, for the boy is always full of smiles and laughter and the Prince can recall it clearly, the sound bright and uplifting.

Sharply Arthur looks away. Whatever paths his thoughts had begun to thread, he's not ready to follow them yet. Maybe he'll  _never_  be ready. He forces his focus back onto Morgana and her infuriating cunning mind and how she so often annoys him, and finds it slightly calming to his suddenly racing heart.

He turns to his companion who is fully unaware of any of this, struggling to find distraction.

"Tell me, do you think her … beautiful?" Arthur asks and takes a sip of his ale. Truly, one would be a fool or completely blind – or both - not to think of Morgana thusly.

Lancelot follows his gaze, albeit it's not entirely focused, as if he's not looking at the lady but at someone else. "Yes, sire," he answers simply. "I do."

"… I suppose she is."

Morgana, sensing his gaze, shifts to meet it with a questioning yet cunning stare and Arthur wonders what she's thinking. They've already talked about this, behind closed doors. Morgana would never be happy to marry him, and  _she_  at least deserves some happiness. Besides, Arthur thinks it'd probably be best if she married some weak lord and took over his kingdom – it wouldn't surprise him if she did. She is that kind of woman: strong, independent, dangerous.

"Are you and the Lady Morgana – if I may imply such, sire …?"

Arthur startles. The reply comes out sharper than first intended: "It does not matter. We'd not … be happy with each other, but it's a thing to think of the future, not now."

"I'm sorry, sire," the knight hurries to say. "I meant no offense."

"Calm, sir Lancelot. I know. It's simply … The two of us have a complicated relationship. Please don't think of it." He turns to look at the newly-knighted man. "Do you perhaps have eyes set on anyone?"

The man might already have a sweetheart or be betrothed or even have a wife, waiting for news of him in Northumbria or some other land, albeit he's not mentioned it.

"… No, sire – well, I do not know her to be interested, and it's too early for any kind of advances either way."

Again, the knight's gaze flicker toward the table where Morgana's just been but now is leaving, a smug smile on the lady's face as if she's realized something she oughtn't (again). Arthur narrows his eyes momentarily; even though clearly trying to guard his emotions, the Prince doesn't miss the expression flitting over the man's face, almost darkening it. The maid and the manservant are still chatting amiably with one another, neither of them noticing the eyes on them, and Merlin smiles that stupid wide grin - Arthur's pulse staggers again against his will.

 _It's almost ironic; two knights sitting here staring at a pair of servants like distraught fools,_ Arthur thinks bitterly, but his voice betrays nothing.

"I see. Well, I wish you the best of luck, sir Lancelot." He raises his tankard at the man, who does the same and the pottery clinks together.

"And I do the same for you, sire," the knight answers almost like he can read minds.

* * *

"My lady," Merlin greets her courteously but she simply laughs.

"Oh, please don't. I know you prefer not to, anyway. Tonight no one will notice," Morgana says. She holds a dainty goblet of wine in her hands instead of a cup of mead, and her dress is as daring as ever: Merlin does his best not to stare. But back in Ealdor no woman would ever go out dressed like that, their elbows naked and the hem of the necklines going so low. "I have heard you know our new knight rather well," the lady continues with a small secretive smile.

"Uhm, quite, I mean – he saved my life," the servant says.

"You never told me that!" Gwen cries, immediately demanding more details, visibly not happy that he forgot to tell her this earlier. After all, it's been several days since Lancelot's arrival, and as his best friend Gwen should've been the first to know.

"Sorry, Gwen, but it didn't seem that important. That beast appeared in the forest when I was picking herbs for Gaius. There'd probably not be much left of me if not for Lancelot."

She stares at him. "'Not that important?'"

"Well … uhm, maybe a bit." Awkwardly he scratches at the back of his neck.

"You're unbelievable," Gwen chides, shaking her head. "A nobleman saves you from a savage beast and it's ' _not that important_?' Oh Merlin, you…! You ought to have told me!"

"I'm sorry. Really I'm sorry. I just – it slipped my mind, all right? Since Lancelot got injured I was more worried about that, and then the knighting and everything…"

The maid sighs. "All right. I've forgiven you. It does not mean you do not have to tell me the details later, though!"

Morgana, who's been watching the exchange with a smile on her face, grins wider. "Ah, I believe I shall leave you two to it." She walks away from them with incredible grace in each step, earning quite a few stares from various courtiers and jealous looks from the courtiers' wives.

Merlin seizes the opportunity to change the subject. "You know what? I think sir Lancelot might have eyes for you, Gwen."

"Oh don't be silly," she says. "I'm just a maidservant, and he's a nobleman; why would he even look my way?"

The warlock has to bit his lip to keep the truth from bursting from his lips.

"So what if he did – would that really be so bad?"

To his surprise the woman only sighs again. Then, he realizes sharply  _why_  and wants to lay an arm about her to comfort her, wants to tell her that Lancelot isn't out of her league at all and that he's seen the man look at her, that Lancelot has asked about her even after such a short while. That there's a chance for them and he's certain of it already and  _the two can have a future._  The words form on the tip of his tongue.

To his surprise, Gwen continues; "He's not really my type."

_Is this a defense mechanism?_

Recalling a similar conversation many weeks before, in this very hall, his face suddenly flushes. Did it mean she…? No, she couldn't. Not  _him_.

But she doesn't know – doesn't know what he's hiding. No, to Gwen, he's just a normal, if a bit odd, peasant turned servant. A very male servant. It's very, very plausible. The thought makes him suddenly self-conscious, like he wants to draw in on himself. He's not thought of her like that; she's a dear friend and he's simply not before  _considered_  the possibility of her fancying him. But then, there are her warm glances and the nervousness that seemed to swell sometimes … It makes sense.

Merlin bites his lip.

In attempt to hide this reaction, and realization, he tries joking but he isn't sure if it sounds wholehearted. "Oh well, there's a surprise. Sometimes, Guinevere, I wonder if you'd know what your type was if he was standing right next to you."

She glances at him. Obviously it hadn't worked. "You're probably right."

Merlin reaches out to grab another drink from the nearby table. He's seen dozens of servants to the same during the night, so there's no one stopping him. Even Gwen has had some even if she's so careful.

"So, come on," he says, "Just for the sake of argument. If you had to: Arthur or Lancelot?"

Finally, she laughs, the lines of worry on her face relaxing and disappearing. "But I don't have to and I never will!"

"You are no fun, Gwen," he says feigning a pout and takes another deep drink.

"Well…I suppose they're both rather handsome and good fighters, very strong men…But they would never give me a second glance, so it doesn't matter."

It might be the ale loosening his tongue. "Look at it this way then: Arthur's a total prat, while Lancelot is kind and selfless and noble and …"

"All right, all right!" The maidservant concedes and rolls her eyes. "I get it. But it doesn't matter. How much have you had to drink?"

"Not that much!" Merlin protests. Really, he hasn't, even if there's been more than three cups and he's got a bit of trouble focusing and there's a pleasant buzz in his head.

That moment there’s a pounding sound as if someone's hitting a table catch their attention and they lift their heads toward the main table, where the Prince is seated rather unceremoniously atop of the table itself instead of on a chair. Arthur stands and raises his voice with a smile: "Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in a toast to our new recruit, our new knight of Camelot: sir Lancelot!"

The people cheer again, and Merlin lifts his cup in acknowledgement as Lancelot looks straight at him. The man's neck bows slightly back at him, a brief silent exchange of understanding.

"Live Sir Lancelot!" echoes through the hall and Merlin merrily joins in: "Live sir Lancelot!"

* * *

Outside the large windows the sky has darkened. His head is  _definitely_  buzzing by now. Everywhere he looks there are colours and people and laughter, and he thinks that maybe it'd be wise to sit down for a moment, to clear his head. But when he's offered another tankard (which one was it? The fourth?); he can't say no and he doesn't find anywhere to sit anyhow, all seats are occupied by the nobility. Since he's a servant he is expected to remain standing the rest of the night, on duty or no.

While Gwen left some half an hour ago to attend to Morgana, who'd decided to retire, several of the servants no longer were required by their masters and mistresses to stand two feet away constantly ready to attend to whatever needs they have. For once they are allowed to make the most of the night - for tomorrow will be another ordinary day with another early morning.

So when one of the servants notices him standing uncertainly in a corner for himself, the man approaches, asking; "How is it being the Prince's manservant?"

Merlin vaguely recognizes the man addressing him. Doesn't he serve Sir Leon? His chin is clean-shaven and his clothes are finely woven: not matching those of a noble, of course, but better than most commoners'. The warlock can't help but glance down at his own clothes; Arthur hadn't demanded him to wear anything special for the occasion (Merlin's glad he won't have to wear that silly hat) but now he feels underdressed in his simple brown jacket and tattered neckerchief.

"It's all right," he replies and grins, "even though he's a giant prat."

The man stares wide-eyed. "He lets you call him that?"

"Not really. I mean, he's kind of fond of sending me to the stocks."

The man laughs, and the lines of age that's darkened his brow melts momentarily. "My master's been his comrade for a long while, and I have seen his Highness often; I'm aware he has his … moods sometimes."

" _Most_  times," Merlin corrects him without hesitation, the tone not unfriendly, and the smile remains like plastered to his face. But seconds after, he sobers abruptly, that warm feeling spreading through his blood and bones, it's a good feeling but it hurts a bit too. "But he's a good man really. Not just a dollophead. Inside he's really a good man."

The man smiles; it's a nice and steady smile, it's trustable. "I'm terribly sorry for my manners. My name is Edric. And you are Merlin, correct?"

"Yup, that's me. Merlin. I mean." His ears go red. He hadn't meant to almost start prattling like that. Must be the mead. "You serve sir Leon?"

"Yes, I have since I was thirteen."

Merlin makes a face. Thirteen? "Must've been annoying. I mean, not to speak ill of sir Leon, or you. I'm just glad I haven't had to serve Arthur for that long." Oh, that probably came out wrong. He's always had this ability to put his foot in his mouth as soon as he opens it.

"I can see why the Prince keeps sending you to the stocks! Most masters don't like their servants being too  _honest_  in their opinions."

"What, they want them to  _lie_?" Merlin makes wide eyes. That makes no sense!

The man sends him an odd look. "Not out-rightly lie, but some opinions are better kept to themselves."

"Oh."

Suddenly Merlin doesn't feel that much for talking with the man anymore. He just can't  _understand_  how nobility expects all servants to be like doormats to walk upon, when they're human beings just like them! And it angers him a bit to hear a servant expression thoughts that it's right, that they should be treated like that. They  _shouldn't_. It's not right.

He might've said that last bit out loud, because the other servant responds humourlessly; "It's the way things are."

"…Yeah. Well, I think, I think I got to go now." He inches back, not missing how the other man looks at him, intense for a moment, and it's a bit startling. It's difficult to read the man's face and Merlin turns away before he can determine.

* * *

He's lost sight of Arthur nearly one candle-mark ago (he's not that certain of the time) and isn't that bothered, not until he realizes that he still needs to ask for the Prince's permission to leave. After all, he's still  _technically_  at work, even if he isn't working. Thus he begins to look around starting to look for said prat.

He's nearly crossed the hall when he turns to the left and accidentally walks straight into something quite tall and solid.

"Watch your step you bumbling fool!" the person cries angrily, wine sloshing dangerously near the rim of the fine goblet in his hand, and a few red stains lands on Merlin's jacket before he can react.

"Hey! I just cleaned that!" the servant exclaims.

"You can do it again, I'm sure. It is after all your job."

The Prince stands tall (but, the warlock notices slightly smugly, he's still a bit taller than him) and looming, arms crossed over his chest. He also stands close, the warmth of the man's body melting into his side and their chests nearly brushes, and Merlin pulse unwillingly speeds up.

Swallowing, he instinctively takes a step back. "Sorry, I didn't mean to." His hip bumps into a nearby table, pain spreading beneath the skin sharply at the impact and from the corner of his eye he's  _positive_  he sees the prat chuckle. "Ow!"

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Of course you didn't. You're a terrible lightweight. I am retiring, and you're to help me prepare for bed."

"Um, of course."

The Prince glares at him admonishingly, but without much heat. "'Of course,  _sire_ ,' Merlin – it's  _sire_. Will you  _ever_  learn? Oh, don't answer that question, it was rhetorical. I bet you’ve never heard of that word before."

"Why, indeed I have,  _sire_. You’d be surprised to find how wide my vocabulary is."

“That might only be because you peasants have a dozen different words for _dirt_ ,” Arthur retorts dryly.

“We also have many different words for ‘Prince’,” Merlin informs him good-naturedly. “Like ‘Prat’ and ‘Dollophead’. I’m surprised to see so few court people using them, sire.”

“You’ll be in the stocks for that!”

All right, Merlin admits that he exaggerates it somewhat. But seeing Arthur sigh and roll his eyes looking like he wants to tear at his hair, never ceases to amuse him.

* * *

The corridors are dark and gloomy compared to the feast but it's also a bit soothing on Merlin's eyes, and the crisp air is refreshing after being in the great hall for hours. And he realizes how tired he is and that he promised Gaius not to be late – a promise that's now been badly broken. Hopefully his mentor won't be  _that_  angry, but there's no telling with Gaius. So once he's left Arthur after making sure the Prince had settled in for the night, he hurries back home and carefully, carefully opens the door and tiptoes into the chamber.

The physician has fallen asleep already, but there's a candle burning on the bedside table. Thanks to the faint light Merlin manages to get up to his room without incident – the glow spills onto the floorboards. The mattress on the floor is empty; Lancelot must still be at the feast.

"Merlin," a tired voice suddenly says.

He groans. "I thought you were asleep."

"My intention was to wait for you. Obviously you must have had a good time." Gaius doesn't sound angry but still a bit upset. "You're very late."

"Sorry." Just how many times had he apologized this night?

The old man appears in the doorway and smiles. "Just make sure to catch some sleep. You'll certainly need your energy in the morrow when you are to help with cleaning up the Hall."

* * *

When Merlin wakes up next morning, the sun far too bright, he finds Lancelot's there and awake. The man is lacing his boots as the warlock heaves himself out of bed, scanning the room for his own shoes. "Good morning, Merlin," Lancelot says warmly. "How are you feeling?"

"Like my head's been run over by a horse cart," the servant replies with a grimace. "I hope Gaius has some medicine for headaches in stock."

The knight seems to be very much of the same opinion, and they share the same relief when coming down to find that the physician, foreseeing as he is, has already prepared some foul-smelling concoction.

"Morning, gentlemen," Gaius says and hands them each a cup. "Here, for the headaches. Don't smell it, don't taste it, just down it in one."

It tastes foul as does most, if not all, of Gaius' medicine and Merlin doesn't complain but cannot hide a grimace.

"We cannot have you nodding off on the first day on the job, Lancelot," the old man continues with a small smile and Merlin grins. Despite his mentor's reluctance about the whole affair he still supports them.

"That is  _sir_  Lancelot, if you don't mind," Merlin inserts and grins almost stupidly. He can't almost believe it, but Lancelot's a  _knight_  now! Never again will he be treated like a simple peasant.

Two things happen at once:

Gaius chuckles warmly and says: "Indeed it is."

And the door slams open by two armed guards, their faces grave, led by sir Leon. Silence fall over the room and Merlin's throat constricts.

No. No, this can't be. This can't be happening. He'd been careful with forging the seal – no one should’ve found out … _This shouldn't be happening!_

"What's this about?" the physician demands to know as one of them nearly knocks over one of the precious bottles sitting by the edge of the nearest table. The guards stalk forward and grab Lancelot's forearms in a tight grip.

"This man is under arrest," sir Leon says, not sparing Merlin a glance even as the servant steps forward, exclaiming: "No! You can't-! Stop!"

Lancelot remains quiet, his head bowed, but Merlin doesn't miss the look the man sends him. It's a warning, nay, a plead:  _stay out of this._

"It is the King's orders," the knight informs them. It sound almost like an apology. "You are under arrest for treason of the crown."

* * *

"This seal is forged. Truly an astounding forgery, but a forgery nonetheless," states Geoffrey of Monmouth, presenting the parchment. It's for show, Arthur knows, of course: the King has discussed with the Historian along with the rest of council for hours beforehand. They have all the evidence they need to pinpoint Lancelot's betrayal.

Arthur bites his cheek to keep down the words. It's simply so  _unfair._  Lancelot is a better swordsman than most and his heart is good; he's strong, loyal,  _dependable._  Just the kind of man that Arthur needs among his knights. Lancelot has proven himself trustworthy - despite the lies. The Prince had an inkling that the man hid something all along; but he'd decided to ignore it, to give the man a chance. When Lancelot had come to him dressed in armour and bearing the seal, he'd seemed confident and it'd just felt right to trust him.

"Do you deny these allegations?" the King demands.

The kneeling man bows his head. "No, sire."

"You have brought shame upon us and yourself; you are not worthy of the Knighthood which has been bestowed upon you. You are a traitor, a traitor of this Kingdom. And you shall be punished as such." He gestures at the guards. "Get him out of my sight."

The guards grab Lancelot's forearms and haul him roughly to his feet.

Arthur can't keep still any longer. "Sire," he says stepping forward, "Lancelot only wishes to serve. His deception is inexcusable but he meant no harm, I am sure of it."

Uther turns toward him eyes ablaze. "The First Code is a sacred bond of trust that binds the knights together. How can you trust a man who has lied to you?"

_How indeed?_

The sting of the words is more painful than he's expected. But it's true, is it not? He is meant to trust the Knights with his life and his kingdom. How can he do that when one is a liar and deceiver?

* * *

When he's supposed to be delivering the Prince's dirty clothes to the laundress, Merlin sneaks down to the dungeons. Visitors haven't been completely forbidden, not yet, perhaps because the King doesn't believe that anyone would want to visit the prisoner - the traitor, the deceiver.  _Traitor._  The thought leaves Merlin feeling bitter and ashamed. He'd promised to help Lancelot, he's  _tried_  - and all he'd managed to do was to have Lancelot locked away awaiting his sentence. They might even execute him!

The man looks up as he arrives, almost questioningly. "Merlin, what are you doing here?" he asks. Lancelot doesn't sound angry or resentful, but what if he is? He has every right to be. Knighthood was his dream and now Merlin's crushed it, forever.

Merlin leans against the bars. They are cold and unforgiving under his palms. "I wanted to see you. And apologize."

"Do not apologize," Lancelot cuts in hurriedly. "Please. I brought this upon myself."

"But I pushed you, I made you lie."

"The choice was mine. My punishment is mine alone to bear." His voice is so steady and convicted. So  _accepting_  of the doom which has been placed upon him. How can he do that? How can he just sit and bear it and do nothing?!

A miserable sigh tearing out of his throat, his chest burning with guilt; Merlin  _pleads._  "I wish there's something I could do..."

"There is." The servant stares at him expectantly. "You can stop blaming yourself."

"It's my fault. If I hadn't ..." Merlin murmurs and glances over his shoulder, at the guard who stands five feet away in an alcove, but the helmet hides the man's face and betrays nothing. "If I hadn't done what I did, you wouldn't be a prisoner now."

"Merlin," Lancelot says shaking his head. "You never wished to do ill and I know that. You have a pure and good heart, and it shouldn't be darkened by guilt for my sake. Please, now go and do not worry about me."

* * *

It’s during the middle of serving the Prince his evening meal that the warning bells suddenly start ringing. Arthur is on his feet at once, food forgotten and Merlin nearly drops the pitcher of water he’s holding.

“Dress me in my armour. Qiuck!”

Merlin abandons the pitcher and rushes to the chest next ot the fireplace which holds the chainmail and armguards. As he’s fumbling with one of the straps, the door opens and sir Leon enters the room.

“Sire, the winged beast has entered the city! It’s nearing the courtyard.”

Arthur curses foully. “Merlin, would you hurry up? We need to fight it _today_!”

“I’m trying!”

Finally he manages to get the armour in place. Arthur doesn’t wait, drawing his sword and marching out of the room. Merlin hesitates for a moment; should he go after him, or stay here? The Prince didn’t give any direct orders about that.

Making the decision isn’t that tough.

When he catches up with him, half a dozen men in cloak and armour have joined the Prince and they are heading the fastest route for the courtyard, crisscrossing through the maze of corridors in the castle. Arthur catches a glimpse of him and scowls darkly, probably mentally calling him an idiot for following them: inside it’d be much safer. Merlin ignores him and keeps following.

Outside, people are rushing around in panic, screaming. Salesmen have abandoned their wares in the open street and doors and window-shutters are being closed tight.

“On me!” Arthur cries, holding up his sword. The knights form up behind him. Some are armed with long dangerous spears, and one also has a crossbow.

The warlock waits half-way behind a grand column on the east side of the courtyard, from where he can see all of the knights. The beast is circling overhead, screeching loudly, diving down now and then. It must’ve spotted the scarlet cloaks, because it whips around and heads straight for them. A cry of warning escapes Merlin’s throat, but it’s unnecessary because the men have already noticed.

The knight with the crossbow aims at the creature, and releases a bolt – it’s looks like it’s a perfect hit. Merlin holds his breath. But the bolt bounces off the beast’s neck without having hurt it. There is no blood.

The creature comes down upon them. Arthur swings powerfully his sword at it but misses; the creature is swift. The next time however he does not miss; his whole arm vibrates at the force with which he strikes.

The weapon is torn from his hand. Using its momentum the creatue lashes out with its wings and manages to knock several of the men, including Arthur, off their feet.

Panic rises in Merlin’s throat and he reacts with the first spell he comes up with, hissing under his breath: **“Ácwele!”**

But just like before the magic has no effect. However it makes the creature pause as if it’s feeling the spell and it gains Arthur enough time to come to his feet and grab a nearby spear lying on the ground. With a battle-cry he launches the weapon at the beast.

The spear breaks.

“Damn it,” Merlin breathes. They need to drive the creature away somehow! Even if they can’t kill it, they can’t let it stay in the city any longer.

“Sire!” sir Leon shouts. He rushes toward the Prince, who now stands a bit apart from the others, completely without weapon. The knight bears a torch, which he waves at the beast. That makes it halt: it screeches at them, before taking a leap into the sky.

“Sire, are you unharmed?”

“Yes,” Arthur responds. There is no blood on his clothing. “See to the others.”

* * *

Weary and hungry after yet another long day, Merlin returns to Gaius' chamber when nightfall is near. The old man us hunched over another book, just like he's been for the past few days when trying to pinpoint exactly what kind of creature has been attacking the kingdom's villages. Without ado Merlin grabs the nearest bowl of mushy stew – the only dish that's regularly served in this house – and digs in. The physician doesn't look up from his work, turning the pages with quiet raspy sounds, his eyes narrowed in a frown.

Merlin remains quiet as well, not mentioning his visit to Lancelot in the dungeons. Gaius would only start worrying and he's got enough on his hands already. He’s treated the knights who were injured while fighting the beast today. Fortunately none of them were gravely wounded: just cuts and bruises.

But suddenly the old man's eyes widen as he opens another page. "Come and take a look at this," he exclaims and curious the warlock edges over to him. "I have realized my mistake."

"What mistake?"

"I've only searched for living creatures that are known to be in this kingdom, but the search remained futile," Gaius says. "But then I thought: what if the winged beast is a creature of legend, of  _myth_? And see what I have found ..."

Gaius turns to the book for Merlin to see, and next to the old small script on the left side of the page, the parchment worn and yellow, there's a finely detailed drawing of a creature with the wings of an eagle and the fur on a lion. The warlock recognizes it at once. "That's it! That's the monster we saw in the woods!"

"The griffin is a creature of magic; at least that is what the story says. It makes sense. You said Lancelot's sword broke when it touched the griffin's hide, and all villages have stood defenseless before it, also the towns that have access to small amounts of soldiers and weapons. This would mean only magic can destroy it."

"But my magic was useless against it," Merlin recalls, uncertain, remembering the incident in the woods – no matter how he'd pushed his magic at it, the beast hadn't been harmed, merely halted for a moment. "I couldn't stop it."

"Perhaps we need to find a spell strong enough," the old man says seriously, pinning him down with his gaze. "You said yourself you used instinctive, wordless magic and while yours is remarkably powerful it might not be enough. A spell is the solution."

"That'd take  _days!_  Arthur and his knights are planning on hunting it down and killing it soon, we don't have enough time…"

A heap of heavy dusty volumes land with a thud right in front of his nose, making Merlin cough at the dust they cause to swirl in the air.

"We'd better start looking for that spell then."

* * *

The physician approaches the King later that night, bowing before Uther and the council before explaining about the griffin – how it would be useless to go against it with mere mortal weapon. The King pales and his knuckles tighten; barely anyone but Arthur who's standing next to him and Gaius who has known the King for so long notices the amount of tension building up in the air; the rest of the people in the room only sees Uther's dark frown.

"You are mistaken, physician," the King says. "It is a creature of flesh and blood like any other. Arthur has proved that."

The Prince steps forward then, and Merlin turns his eyes to look at him; Arthur isn't wearing his cloak today, and he looks unusually weary. "I am not so sure father; there might be truth in what he says. My men's weapon seemed useless against the beast when we fought it in the courtyard."

"Useless? I think not."

Merlin bites his tongue to keep quiet and no yell at the King at how blind and arrogant he's being; how can’t he see what’s right in front of him?!

"No," the King continues, "it has tasted our steel before and next time shall be its last." He turns to his son who acknowledges him with a bow of his neck. "When will your men be ready to ride?"

"In an hour, maybe two."

It'll be dark then, Merlin quietly thinks. Isn't it risky enough to face the beast? And to do it without daylight is like suicide! Arthur can't ride out there, if he does he can't defend himself or his men and they'll die – an icy invisible hand clenches around Merlin's throat at the thought – they'll  _die_  before he's found that spell to defeat the griffin. They can't go! Not yet!

"Good. We finish this tonight."

* * *

Merlin has felt panic many times in his life. Like when Will went missing when he was fourteen and half the village went out to search for him and it turned out Will had decided to take his father's bow and go out hunting by himself. Or more recently when Arthur's hand curled around the poisoned goblet and he nearly drank the wine that Nimueh had tainted with a dark spell.

His heart races and he can't sit still – the ancient script on the book in front of him dances, he can't make sense of it.

"We'll find it, don't worry," Gaius tries calming him.

But it's just a few minutes left now. Merlin's already helped Arthur into his armour and now the Prince is down below in the courtyard along with his men, regrouping and mounting their steeds. They'll be off any moment now before Merlin can stop them.

"We'll find a way," the physician murmurs again. The warlock glances at the window. The sky looks murky and wet. "Don't worry, Merlin."

* * *

They are just minutes from leaving when Arthur pauses and hands over the reins to sir Leon. The man startles. "Sire?"

"Wait. I shall be back momentarily. Prepare the men."

The knight bows his head, asking none of the questions that the Prince is certain he's wanting to ask. "Sire."

Getting past the guards is easy. The men bows as he passes and he nods back, giving them some encouragement. Everyone in the city now knows of the attacking beasts and that it might return again, if the knights fail their mission. Arthur shouldn't let his mind linger on that possibility – it is far too distracting - but the city's safety is his duty and he can't help but fear what would happen if he and his men are killed out there. What if there's more than one beast? What if it comes back to Camelot and kills its people?

At the back of the cell, Lancelot is sitting slumped over, like his will and energy is slowly slipping through the crack of the stone walls. But when the Prince opens the cell door and steps in, the man fly to his feet.

"Sire," Lancelot breathes and bows; the Prince shakes his head.

"I should have known. You don't sound like a knight – you don't look like a knight. And yet I fell for it."

It's almost like a lie. He'd suspected … and Lancelot made a convincing knight. He's noble and strong, well-worded and a good warrior, all of the strengths which Arthur seeks among his men. Still – he is a traitor.

The man hangs his head in shame. "I'm sorry."

"I am sorry too. Because, Lancelot, you fight like a knight. And I need – Camelot needs …"

"The creature?" the man inquires.

"We could not kill it. I have never before faced its like; none of our weapons had any effect on it."

"I faced it myself, sire," Lancelot replies. "I struck it full square, and I wondered how it endured."

Arthur is aware of the guards, knowing that they are giving room for this conversation but still, his father must not know of this. "There are those that believes this creature, this griffin, is a creature of magic, that only magic can kill it."

A strange light comes to Lancelot's eyes. Perhaps the man has suspected this himself. "Do you believe this?"

"It does not matter what I believe; the use of magic is not permitted." For the first time his tone slips, a twinge of regret colouring the words. Because if…  _if_  there was a sorcerer out there that could help them, for some mad reason, they could succeed. But they cannot for any sorcerer near Camelot is already dead or have fled faraway. Only a fool would aide Camelot using magic!

"The knights must prevail with steel and sinew alone." He looks the man in the eye. Lancelot stands straight and attentive, like a loyal man awaiting orders; not like a traitor facing his judge. "There is a horse waiting outside."

"Thank you, sire, thank you-!"

"Lancelot, take it and leave and never return to this place."

A shadow falls over the man's face, confused more than hurt. "No. No, please, sire, it is not my freedom I seek. I only wish to serve Camelot."

A regretful sigh passes Arthur's lips. "I know."

"Then let me ride with you, sire."

"I cannot. My father knows nothing of this. I release you myself, but I can do no more. Now go before I change my mind."

He steps out of the cell before Lancelot can respond, and mutters an order to the guard whose eyes widen, but there is no other reaction before the man bows and leaves. Arthur doesn't look over his shoulder as he ascends the stairs to rejoins his men in the courtyard.

The cell door remains open.

* * *

"Merlin! Look."

A book is thrust in his hands and Merlin lets his gaze skim over the page. The words are clear and bold and though he's still not learned to translate the language of the Old Religion completely, he instinctively understands how the words can be used in combination with his magic. So he knows at once that this isn't as simple as levitating an object or enchanting a broom to do the sweeping on its own.

"The only enchantment that I've cast before that's that powerful was when I made the snakes on Valiant's shield come to life," Merlin mutters and glances at the old man. "Gaius, that took me all night to learn!"

"Yes, but you are extraordinary Merlin. A night? For most sorcerers it would take whole months, yes,  _years_  to master such a thing! I know, in my heart, that you can do this."

He hands him an old rusty dagger which probably hasn't been wielded for decades, the edges completely dull. "Nothing less will kill it. Now try."

Merlin bites his lip, but accepts the weapon and summons his magic, taking a deep breath and reciting the words off the page: "… **Bregdan anweald gafuelec**."

Magic vibrates beneath his skin but nothing appears to happen. Again, he tries, forcing more depth into his tone,  _commanding_ the magic forward – " **Bregdan anweald gafuelec!** "

But nothing happens.

"Don't worry, we have plenty of time," Gaius says quietly but it's not much of a reassurance.

* * *

The Prince's voice rings across the courtyard as the men mounts, their cloaks billowing in the cold evening breeze. Torches are being lit across the castle and soon the sky will be entirely dark. "It is time."

* * *

Frustration is boiling just beneath the surface of Merlin's skin. It's just not working! He's losing patience and is growing more and more strained with worry; Arthur's probably already left with his men and if they manage to find the griffin ... They can't defeat that thing on their own!

For the umpteenth time the warlock grips the knife and stares at it, power trembling under his fingertips. The words roll off his tongue. But still, nothing - nothing but silence and disappointment and the thudding of his heart against his rib-cage. If only there was more time for him to learn the spell! But there's no more time. There is no more time.

Gaius hovers near the window, glancing out of it now and then as darkness falls and Merlin remains kneeling on the stone floor, chanting the words again and again with no effect but a slight meaningless tremble.

Suddenly the door flies open and Merlin, startled, drops the knife with a clatter. Gwen's face is pale and her tone frantic. "Gaius! Lancelot's riding after the knights to face the winged beast!"

The warlock's fists clenches. This is it, this is his chance; perhaps Lancelot could help - somehow - even if the man might find out about his magic and denounce him for it. If he doesn't act, Arthur and Lancelot and the other knights might die and Merlin won't just sit here and warm his feet by the fire if he can do anything about it.

"Where is he now?"

"By the royal stables. He came to me and asked for armour and weapons." Gwen bites his lip, staring at the physician almost like pleading, needing an answer. "Is it true that the winged beast can only be killed by magic?"

Merlin meets his guardian's gaze. If they manage to get rid of the beast then someone might get suspected for sorcery, not perhaps the right person and it's not something they can risk. Gaius seems to understand, because he says, vaguely; "We aren't quite certain yet. Arthur might be able to defeat it."

There's no more time. The warlock rushes out of the room, down the corridor following familiar paths that he by now must've walked hundreds of times before. The town is quiet at this hour, only a dog barking in the distance, and the air is cool. The area around the stables are lit by a handful of torches but all guards have cleared the area; perhaps, since Lancelot's out jail, that might be Arthur's doing because Merlin has an inkling King Uther wouldn't be too fond of a man he's just sentenced for treason is now dressed in fine armour and mounting one of the royal warrior steeds.

He reaches the man just as he's pulling himself up in the saddle. "Merlin! What are you doing here?" he exclaims.

"I could ask about the same," the servant retorts.

"Prince Arthur let me go."

"Gwen says you're going after him, to face the griffin."

Lancelot nods solemnly. "It is my duty." Before the man can say goodbye and turn away, Merlin launches forward and grabs the reins.

"I'm coming with you."

The man stares at him incredulously at first and then shakes his head. "Merlin, you cannot; you are no solider-"

He meets Lancelot's gaze head-on and there must be something, something there, a glint of steel in his eyes that makes the man falter. "Just try and stop me."

* * *

The screams reaches them first as they ride through the dusk, an eerie glow from the moon spreading through the trees; ahead there's a wide path leading to a clearing. When they arrive there is no sign of the beast and the clearing lies still and quiet. Merlin feels a bit sick when seeing the sprawled out bodies and the blood and the dead horses. At least one knight is definitely dead.

Beside him Lancelot holds in his reins. "You should stay here. See if there are any survivors."

Merlin slides off the saddle with surprising ease and doesn't hesitate, crossing the clearing avoiding to look at the destruction around him. His eyes land on a heap of chainmail glimmering faintly and a red wide cloak. The blonde man is lying on his back, half-leaned against a stone as if he'd been thrown there haphazardly, an arm slung across his chest. He's still holding to his sword, however weakly.

Fear wrap around Merlin's chest as he kneels next to Arthur, struggling to find the man's pulse at that spot which Gaius has taught him.

From in the woods an eerily familiar shriek rings out.

There is a heartbeat and suddenly Merlin can breathe again. "He's alive," he murmurs, relief washing through him and he blinks at the suddenness and the strength of the feeling.

Lancelot moves closer, his horse shifting restlessly. "And the others?"

The warlock checks on the nearest man, whom he doesn't recognize. His heart doesn't thrums as loudly with either fear or relief. "He is as well, but he's injured. We need to get them to Gaius."

The shriek sounds again, closer this time. The servant glances around. He can't see it, but he can sense the griffin's presence, it's magic oozing like an aura somewhere in the undergrowth. He can almost  _smell_  it ... Can his magic really be strong enough to counter it? What if it  _isn't?_ What if the spell won't work?

"Stay here with the men," Lancelot says quietly. "We can't let the beast get any close to Camelot." Gripping his lance, he turns toward the path, tense and ready for battle; all left to do is wait. Merlin lingers uncertainly by the edge of the clearing, near the Prince's slumped body. This silence is deafening and his stomach churns anxiously as he slowly gathers his magic, the words resting on the tip of his tongue.

They do not have to wait long.

The griffin crashes into the clearing with a shriek, aiming right for them, obviously having caught their scent. Its talons dig into the dirt as it charges - Lancelot lifts the lance and turns toward it, ready to strike. He kicks his heels into the steed's sides.

 _This is it, Merlin, don't screw this up now_ , the warlock tells himself and raises a hand, pointing at the lance.

**"Bregdan anweald gafuelec."**

The murmur has no effect. Lancelot is steadily getting closer and within moments the beast will have overtaken him and killed him, if the spell doesn't-

**"Bregdan anweald gafuelec."**

A growl of frustration tears out of Merlin's throat.  _No! Why doesn't it work?!_

Not bothering to keep his voice down any longer he repeats strong and clear and magic vibrates deep within him, tugging upward - **"Bregdan anweald gafuelec!"**

A white and blue glow surrounds the weapon the man's hands right as it lands in the griffin's body, as the beast leaps up to crush its prey. But instead of breaking, the lance pierces the creature's side and the momentum causes it to tumble over the knight and his horse, landing heavily behind them. It's wings flutter for a moment. Then, it shudders, helplessly.

It doesn't move any more.

"Yes! Yes! It worked! You did it!"

Lancelot slows down to a gentle trot and turns back around, nearing the clearing again. Upturning his visor his face appears aglow with wonder and awe. Then Merlin realizes the man is staring at him, and the joy crumbles and twists into that churning anxiety again.

But instead of coming with accusing, the man just nods. Nearly like he's understanding. For a moment Merlin stands frozen, not knowing what to do. Should he just say it - _Yes, I used magic to help you kill the griffin_? Lancelot cannot be so stupid he missed  _that!_

On his side Arthur begins to stir.  _Oh no! He can't see me here!_

He starts backing away. "I, I must go." Before Lancelot can hinder him, he clambers onto his horse and hurries away, back to Camelot, panic still flaring at the bottom of his stomach.

Faintly (though it might just be his imagining), before he's completely out of earshot, he hears the Prince wake and telling Lancelot in wonder: "You killed it. You killed the griffin."

\- and the knight-no-longer replying: "I was not alone, sire."

* * *

Pain clouds Arthur's vision, a dull throb remaining by the edges constantly. His memory is blurry - he'd taken his men out and located the beast shortly. It was almost as if it had been waiting for them. It'd leapt from the sky, coming down upon them without mercy. He remembers throwing a spear at it, right before it lashed out to stab sir Lionel - his stomach wrenches at the thought of the faithful men who had lost their lives tonight - and then...nothing.

He staggers to his feet not entirely sure of his steps.

But sir Lancelot stands now before him, clear in armour and fully armed. For a moment Arthur willingly forgets the man's betrayal and banishment, for it is truly a knight in front of him, not a simple commoner.

There's a large carcass within Arthur's field of vision and he stares at it in wonder, then turns to Lancelot.

"Sire," the man acknowledges, bowing his head.

"You killed it. You killed the griffin."

"I was not alone, sire. You and your men became before me and weakened it." His tone is slightly mysterious but it might just be his heavy head, and the Prince doesn't want to linger. There's already too much he's let his thoughts wander as of late. Anyhow, secrets are better kept as such.

Arthur shakes his head, incredulous Most men would boast after such a kill, but not Lancelot, the noble and modest commoner-knight. "No. I am grateful, Lancelot." He adopts a more serious tone. "You should return to Camelot. I shall speak with my father of this matter. No matter past deeds, you have shown loyalty and dedication and now, you have just saved my life."

"Sire, I cannot ask it," Lancelot begins to protest.

The Prince will not have it. "I will make the King see sense."

* * *

"Are you  _certain_  he saw?"

"Of course he did! I wasn’t exactly subtle about it! He knows, Gaius, he  _knows."_

Merlin shudders at the realization. At the _actuality_ of it. Lancelot knows of his magic, knows that he has this power that he should be executed for. Lancelot _knows_.

In attempt to comfort him, sensing his ward’s distress, Gaius lays a hand on his back trying to steady him. "Do you believe he will tell anyone?"

"I ... No. He's much too goodhearted for that; he knows it’s punishable by death. He shouldn’t …” For a moment he falters. “But still, he's - he's loyal to Arthur and to Camelot. Then he should be loyal to its laws. Oh god, what if, Gaius...!"  _What if he tells Arthur? What if he assumes Arthur knows because I'm his servant and loyal to him? What if-?_

The warlock climbs to his feet, resigned to whatever fate he’ll meet by the end of this night. "I need to find him and talk to him."

Gaius frowns. "He might be long gone; he has no reason to return to Camelot."

"Unless Arthur's found out who killed the griffin and wants to reward him," Merlin answers. Because no matter how much of a stubborn prat he is Arthur would not say no to this chance of such a good knight. "Maybe they'll pardon him."

But the physician's face only darkens. "The King is just as stubborn as his son, if not more. Once he has passed judgment he will not change his mind."

* * *

The guards bow as the Prince passes through the halls and opens the wide doors as he reaches the council chamber, where the King is waiting. A handful of his knights are with him, those who had survived the battle with the griffin and are feeling well enough to walk; the others have just been sent to the physician’s chambers to be treated. Lancelot is among them and the men have already heard what has happened and are staring at the man in wonder. By morning, the city will be bubbling with rumours of his heroic deed.

But Lancelot does not look joyful or proud, his shoulders slumped.

King Uther looks up as they enter the spacious room. A few torches and candles along the wall are flickering. The room is silent and cold, the stone walls betraying nothing.

“It is done, father,” Arthur reports. “The creature is dead.”

Uther stands. “You did it, my son! You did it.”

“Not I, father. It was Lancelot who felled it.”

Then the King sees the battered company and the armoured man standing at the lead and a shadow falls over his face. “What’s he doing here?”

“Sire, I can explain,” the Prince begins but Uther holds up a hand, quieting him, and so the onslaught comes. Arthur’s face remains stoic and the knights wait patiently, without comment or movement, but there is unease written in their eyes.

“You had no right to release this man! He is a _traitor_. He is a danger to this kingdom. How could you trust him

“I confess it, sire,” Arthur answers. “I released him and I shall bear the consequenses. But surely Lancelot’s actions would change things?”

“His actions change nothing! He broke the Code and the law.”

“He laid down his life for me! He served with honour. Pardon him, sire. Let him serve our kingdom, for his loyalties lie with us. Restore his knighthood, I beg of you.”

The King’s voice is firm and emotionless. “Never. The law is the law. The Code bends for no man.”

“Then the Code is _wrong_!”

Lancelot can’t stand it any longer. “Sire, please, if I may speak,” he cuts in before the King can speak again. He feels ashamed to have caused his row between the Prince and his father; he understands Arthur’s ire, the Prince is a good man with a fierce heart, but he can’t let him take the blame for his actions.  After all, he chose not to obey the law, he chose not to obey the Prince and leave the city upon his release. No, he chose to stay and fight.

Upon seeing him step forward without first being allowed several guards rush forward and seize the armoured man by the forearms. But the King halts them. “Wait! I shall hear him.”

“Forgive me, sire.” He bows his head, first at the King, then at the Prince. “But I must bear whatever punishment you decide for me. It is _my_ responsibility.” He looks Arthur in the eye, without hesitation. “I lied to you both and now there is conflict between you. I cannot bear that burden, as you should not bear mine.”

This seems to strike a chord within the King. Perhaps it is this act of selfless nobleness, the laying down of his life before the King that makes Uther realize – Lancelot cannot tell.

“Then you shall be pardoned,” Uther announces, annulling the sentence of death that would have lain the traitor’s head. “But you must leave the city at first light and not return.”

Lancelot bows his head. “Sire.”

* * *

Just as he’s about to leave the safety and comfort of Gaius’ chambers, the man he’d search for appears in the doorway. He looks tired and weary, but relieved, as if he had previously carried a great burden and it’s no longer weighing down his shoulders.

Sensing that this conversation needs to be private, Gaius draws back to the upper room with one of his books. Merlin hardly notices, eyes fixed on the man that’s now turning to close the door behind him.

“Lancelot!” Merlin exclaims, flying to his feet. Despite his fears of Lancelot knowing, despite the gnawing worry, he’s happy to see the man is well and free, without any guards dragging him back to the cells.

“Merlin, I’ve come to say farewell.”

Air rushes out of his lungs. “What?”

“The King has released me from my earlier sentence, but I still broke the law. I must leave Camelot at dawn.”

“But you killed the griffin! You should have your knighthood restored!”

Lancelot shakes his head. “ _I_ was not the one to kill the griffin.”

A sudden lump forms in Merlin’s throat. So he knows then, he saw. “Th-that’s ridiculous.”

“I saw you, I heard you. ‘ _Bregdan anweald_ …’ Those are powers I cannot wield.”

Merlin forced himself to stay still, fighting the tremble of his hands. Even if he’d been sure Lancelot saw he still had this hope, this faint feeling of maybe, maybe Lancelot _didn’t_ see. Maybe his secret was still a secret. But the shock of revelation rattles him to the bone. Oh, what should he _do_? What will _Lancelot_ do?

The man notices his distress and says, calmly; “Don't worry, your secret's safe with me. But I cannot take the credit for what I did not do. That is why I offered to give myself up to the King, not just because I wish no anger between the King and the Prince – they argued over my sentence. This is the best way.”

“Thank you,” Merlin breathes.

“No - thank _you_ , Merlin,” the man retorts. “Were it not for you, I would not be here today, and the griffin might not yet be dead.”

When the man steps forward and pulls his arms around him the shock has begun to fade, though his hands aren’t quite steady yet and he almost loses his breath. The steel of the armour is icy cold but Merlin doesn’t mind – though despite the chainmail, a strange expression comes over Lancelot’s face for a brief moment almost as if he notices something is amiss about their touching bodies so Merlin draws back quickly before he can comment.

“Will you ever return?” he asks. Lancelot is a good man. He doesn’t deserve having to walk away … “You know, Arthur would want you among his knights. He’d welcome you back.”

A small smile tugs at Lancelot’s lips. “I am aware of that, and thankful. Perhaps one day I shall return, when I am ready and most importantly, when Camelot is ready.”

“Until we meet again, then, sir Lancelot.”

* * *

Having to watch Lancelot ride through the gates causes a painful sting to his chest – of regret, of sorrow. If there was just something he’d done differently, if he’d been more careful, perhaps Lancelot would be a knight now, not an exile. If …

“Oh, hello Merlin.”

He swirls on his heel to come face to face with Gwen. A shadow has fallen across her face too, but for different reasons, and she looks almost _confused_ as she joins him by the window to stare after Lancelot’s retreating form. Merlin has a strong urge to hug her.

“Are you all right?” he asks gently.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Just…it’s such a pity…”

“I know. Lancelot’s a good man.”

“Yes,” she murmurs, eyes flickering. “He is.”

Merlin smiles and lays an arm around her shoulder, to bring her some comfort. It’s astounding but at the same time he isn’t that very surprised to see how fast attached Gwen and Lancelot had become. It’s almost like fate.

“He’ll come back one day.”

“You think so?”

“I _know_ so.”

Gwen lets out a little laugh. “How come?”

“Just a hunch.”

“Oh, Merlin.” She shakes her head, but her face is so much brighter already and Merlin’s heart is not as tight in his chest. He takes one of the overloaded baskets offered and together they start walking away from the window. “Help me bring this to the laundress.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> __**Old English/spells:**  
>  [1] Ácwele = Destroy. (A spell which Merlin uses in 1.11)  
> [2] Bregdan anweald gafuelec = Move the powerful javelin.


	14. Part 13: The Silence and the Night [A Remedy to Cure All Ills, part one]

**Part 13:**

# The Silence and the Night

**_[A Remedy to Cure All Ills, part one]_ **

* * *

Another morning dawns on Camelot, crisp and light. Merlin heaves himself out of bed and dresses quickly, noting as he looks out the window that he might be on time for once. Arthur ought to be pleased about that.

Breakfast is a quiet affair, as Gaius is sitting absorbed in some ancient tome he's recently found deep back in the older parts of the library. When Merlin has finished and leaves for the royal kitchen to fetch the Prince's morning meal, the corridors are rapidly starting to fill with busy servants and guards walking their shifts.

He meets Gwen on the threshold to the kitchen; the room is steam-filled and there's a constant lingering smell of freshly baked bread and a multitude spices, attacking his nose. As on most days Gwen has been there earlier than him, and is already carrying an overloaded tray for her mistress. Today there's an extra thing on the platter though, a large white bouquet; the flowers look newly-plucked and Gwen's face is half-hidden by the silvery petals.

"Hi Gwen," Merlin greets her with a smile. "You picked those?" he asks, pointing. "They're very pretty."

To his surprise the woman shakes her head at his question. "They really are, aren't they? They're a gift for the Lady. I found them with a note on my doorstep this morning."

"Oh, who sent them?" he asks curiously.

"I have no idea – some secret admirer probably. She has quite a few of those; she is such a fine Lady," Gwen says knowingly and then she blushes a little, hurrying to add: "Not that I'm saying she shouldn't have any admirers; of course she should! Um …"

Before she can prattle more and the situation gets awkward, Merlin cuts gently across. "Of course she's got admirers, the Lady is stunning, we both know that! Oh, here's my tray."

One of the kitchen aides pushes the Prince's food into Merlin's hands and the cook sends them both a warning glare; she's never been fond of loiterers.

The warlock takes the hint. "I must go wake Prince Arthur. I'll see you around, Gwen."

"Yes, you better hurry, before he wakes by himself and discovers there is no food to be had," the woman agrees and laughs slightly, he blush lifting. "Take care, Merlin."

As predicted, Arthur isn't as grumpy as on most other mornings, when Merlin wakes him in time and presents some freshly baked bread and roasted bacon, the Prince's favourite. However, that matters little when it comes to the length of the chore list. Within a few minutes after getting the Prince awake and dressed Merlin finds he'll have his hands full the rest of the day, with cleaning and laundry and polishing and seeing to the horses and a hundred other little things that needs to be done - at least in the opinion of Royal Prats.

* * *

The day passes quickly and without incident. It's oddly calm actually, and Merlin finds it suspicion since there is rarely a day in Camelot without any kind of episode happening – may it be an illness, an attacking sorcerer or that he trips down the stairs and gets the Prince's newly laundered clothes all muddy. However none of this happens for several hours and Merlin starts to think that maybe that feeling of dread he'd felt this morning was nothing, and he can start relaxing.

He is just on his way back from the stables, which Arthur had ordered him to muck out despite it probably not really being a chore a Prince's Manservant should do, when he runs straight into Gwen.

She's clearly distressed and Merlin reaches out to grab her shoulders gently to steady her. The young woman quivers slightly, panic in her eyes.

"Gwen, what's happened? What's wrong?"

"It's Lady Morgana," Gwen says shakily. "She'd just taken a nap an hour ago, so I went away for a while tending to my chores. Then I went to wake her so she'd be in time for dinner with the King, but no matter what I do, she won't wake up! She's just … lying there, and she's so pale, she won't respond to anything. Something's wrong! Please, Merlin, you must help me!"

A knot of worry forms in the pit of Merlin's belly. People don't just sleep so deeply normally. She couldn't be…?

_No!_

"Gwen, was she breathing? Was—" Before he can finish the sentence the woman nods and cuts across.

"Y-yes, and her heart still beats, but, but…" A shudder of fear travels through the maidservant's body again, almost causing to bring her to tears. "Oh Merlin! What should I do? What if she's…?"

Merlin tries offering some comfort, letting a hand linger on her shoulder as he steers her through the corridor. "We have to fetch Gaius."

* * *

A knock soundly echoes in the chamber and Arthur looks up from his desk, where heaps of documents are scattered about waiting for his signing. As he calls for the person to enter, a guard appears, a slight frown marring the man's face. The guard bows shortly.

"Sire, the King requests your presence in the Lady Morgana's chambers."

Morgana? Forehead creasing with confusion, Arthur puts down the quill. "When?"

The guard's response is brisk. "Immediately, sire."

* * *

His heart catches in his throat at the sight of her.

Morgana lies still and deathly pale beneath layers of blankets, some of which her maidservant is adjusting with slightly shaky hands. His father stands by the foot of the bed, leaning in slightly, his eyes darkened; Gaius is sitting on the bedside checking the Lady's brow, his medicine bag lying open on the table next to a vase of white flowers. The curtains are drawn open and candles unlit, the room bathing in sunlight, yet a shadow seems to linger over them all.

Merlin is there as well – Arthur is initially surprised for he sent the servant down the stables merely an hour ago, but then again the boy is the physician's ward. Gaius must've called for him. The boy is lingering uneasily, exchanging trouble glances with his mentor and then the maidservant, Guinevere.

"…What could have caused this, Gaius?" Uther is saying when Arthur enters.

The physician shakes his head. "I am not sure, I need more time to examine her. But it is like her body is simply … shutting down."

Horror crosses the King's face. "How is that possible? A poison?"

"Perhaps, or maybe an illness, sire," Gaius says gravely. "But all of the Lady's food and drink is checked every day just the food of the whole royal family; poison is highly unlikely. Nevertheless I cannot exclude that possibility."

Arthur decides to make himself known. "Surely you can cure her, Gaius?"

"Let us hope I can."

"You will have access to all the resources you need," the King says without hesitation. "Your highest priority is to heal her."

* * *

When they exit the Lady's chamber – the King and Prince lingering by her bedside – two hours later, Merlin helping to carry the large medicine bag, the warlock turns to his mentor worriedly. "What's wrong with her, Gaius? Will she be all right?"

"I do not know, Merlin," the old man says gravely. "I have never seen anything like that, not with someone so young and healthy…It makes no sense."

"Perhaps she  _was_  poisoned after all," the warlock murmurs, dismay flashing through him at the thought. That'd surely mean she'd ... No, that can't be allowed to happen. He doesn't want to think about the horrifying risk.

"Gaius, maybe I could…"

He halts his words right in time as the clicking of boots against the stone floor announces someone's presence, and a few seconds later a troupe of guards passes the corridor. Merlin bites his lip and gives Gaius a meaningful glance.

"… _help_?"

The physician only shows disapproval. Were his hands not full of equipment, the old man probably would have hit his head for suggesting such a foolish thing, in an open corridor no less. Merlin struggles to look abashed – he just wants to help! He doesn't like standing idle while someone he cares about could be  _dying_ at this very moment. He can't let that happen!

" _No_ , Merlin," Gaius says sternly and begins to walk toward their chamber. "That is far too risky. Have you forgotten what happened to Gwen's father? No, we shall find a cure for Morgana by conventional means."

"I want to help!"

"You can do so by starting to search through the medical records after similar cases. That may give us some answers. I must return to the Lady shortly, so you better get started right away. I'll speak to Prince Arthur about your aiding me."

Through his teeth Merlin lets out a sigh. So he'll have to spend the rest of his day bent over old dusty medicine books when he  _could_  be researching a healing spell.

The stern gaze Gaius traps him with stops the complaints he want to voice from leaving his throat.

"…All right, Gaius. Anything else?"

"Yes, you can go the apothecary and find me so yarrow."

* * *

Two days pass.

Since Gaius demands his aid, the Prince gives Merlin momentary leave from his ordinary duties; but Merlin isn't grateful for that. If he'd had to muck out stables, carrying laundry and clean out the fireplace, that'd mean things were normal and that the Lady wasn't ill. Now everything is just  _wrong_. Gwen has become so down and silent, she spends all her time on her mistress' side anxiously waiting for something to happen; he hasn't had a normal, light conversation with her for days.

If there was just  _something_  he could do…!  _Anything_ …!

But Gaius won't allow it. No magic. So he'll have to spend his time searching through book after old book, in vain trying to find an answer.

* * *

"Anything yet?" Merlin asks carefully when Gaius returns to their rooms, the old man's face darkened and his body slightly slumped. The question is always the same.

Unfortunately, so is also the answer.

Arthur has abruptly turned quiet and restless, and Merlin cannot blame him. This means the Prince has been tense and grumpy, and the young warlock hasn't been able to have any normal conversation with him – at least no what  _he'd_  define a normal conversation with Prince. Mostly the Prince sends him off for long tiresome chores and spends his days on the training fields, hacking away furiously at a dummy with his sword, refusing to do anything else. The entire castle have been able to feel the Prince's tension. Arthur's spent more time yelling at every little thing, or pacing down the halls, and the every servant tries avoiding him if they can.

And if the prince is like a dark cloud with worry, he's nothing compared to the King. Uther has spent the last few days sitting by his beloved ward's bedside, passing onto his duties to his advisors. Talk is running wild in the streets. Whenever he goes to the well Merlin hears someone murmuring about the Lady's illness. The whole city is in a state.

Merlin's tried to cheer Arthur up but he has no idea how, not when his own heart is so heavy with worry. Lady Morgana has done naught to deserve this fate. By every day that passes, his hope of a cure diminishes more and more. If Gaius can't heal her, no one can.

It's been three days now.

The question constantly gnawing at the back of Merlin's mind is  _How many more will she have?_

_Will it be enough for us to find a cure?_

Gaius spends all day making potions and then administering them to Morgana; Merlin barely sees him anymore. He's taken to making dinner every night because when he returns, late in the evenings, the physician is too tired to do it himself.

Gaius shakes his head sadly as he settles by the table, giving him a grateful look as he takes the offered bowl of stew. "Nothing. She's not responded to any of my tinctures…"

Not for the first time, Merlin quietly suggests; "There  _is_  another way. If I could just—"

"No, Merlin. The King is with her at all times, it's too dangerous. We have no idea what we're dealing with. A basic healing poultice might not be enough and would only rouse suspicion. Besides, with Uther's constant presence how would you get it there?" The warlock shakes his head mutely. Gaius is right; there are guarding eyes everywhere in the Lady's chamber right now, and if Gaius were to ask them all to leave only to let his ward inside would be far too suspicious. But still…

"Healing magic is strong and dangerous if you do not know how to properly use it. It might just prove to make her illness even more fatal."

Merlin stares down into the bowl, and then with a sigh pushes it away. He can't find any appetite. What if the Lady  _can't_  be healed …? What then should he do?

"There has to be some way," he says desperately. A brief thought enters his mind, of Gwen's devastated face and of Arthur's grief if the Lady wouldn't make it, and the clear shock of it ripples through him. No, he can't let that happen.

Morgana is like a sister to the Prince - Arthur would become like a ghost were he to lose her like this.

"I'm trying, Merlin," Gaius says wearily. "I'm trying."

"If I can do anything to help…" he glances at his mentor: a plead.

But the old man know what he's thinking and will not have it. "We'll cure her with conventional means. You can help me by fetching me some fresh rosemarine in the morning."

* * *

Darkness is rapidly falling outside the window as Merlin puts down the Prince's evening meal on the table, silently announcing his presence. Arthur, who is changing into his nightshirt, makes a noncommittal grunt in acknowledgement. The scene would've been ordinary if not for the constant pressing silence. There is no banter tonight, just like there's been no banter for the last three days.

Merlin hasn't realized until now how badly he misses it. It's almost like an itch that cannot quite be reached – he struggles to cheer up the Prince, if just for a moment so they can talk like normal and if Arthur could just call him an idiot without malice again he'd be happy. But Arthur won't, so stubbornly set in silence. He doesn't raise his voice, and Merlin stopped trying to joke two days ago when the Prince stopped smiling.

As Arthur emerges from behind the dressing screen to take seat, Merlin fills his goblet with wine. The alcohol will calm Arthur's nerves somewhat, at least for some time, enough for him to find some rest. A Prince who doesn't sleep is never a functional Prince, no matter how worried he is for his beloved ones.

"Has Gaius come up with anything yet?" Arthur asks, poking at the food on the tray with little interest.

"He's continuing with the treatment," Merlin answers vaguely, "but…"

 _There it is, the ever-lingering word,_ the warlock thinks bitterly. _But…if…_

The Prince heaves a sigh. The shadows caused by the candlelight makes the frown and lines of worry on his face even more obvious, and Merlin has a sudden urge to reach out and lay a hand on the man's shoulder. But he can't do that, Arthur's the Prince and servants can't just do that, never mind his good intentions. Instead, Merlin puts down the pitcher and says, "It's going to be all right, I know it is. She's going to be absolutely-"

" _Mer_ lin," the Prince cuts him off, sending him a sharp look.

"What?"

"Just – don't."

Arthur sounds so …  _vulnerable_. It feels somehow wrong to see and hear him like that, Merlin doesn't know what to do or what to say. Arthur is  _never_  vulnerable. He's always so strong and certain. But the warlock knows that whereas he is disconcerted, the Prince is also itching to do something, and he knows nothing about healing or illnesses. In this situation there is no knife-work or diplomacy that can be done to help. There's nothing he can do.

"I was just trying to-"

"I know, I know." The Prince holds his gaze – Merlin barely dares to blink or breathe for a moment, unsure why Arthur's gaze affects him like that, why his  _voice_  ...

Then Arthur looks away momentarily and speaks, making a gesture toward the door, and the spell is abruptly broken. "Go home, Merlin. Get some sleep. You can clean this up in the morning."


	15. Part 14: Give Us All the Answers [A Remedy to Cure All Ills, part two]

**Part 14:**

# Give Us All the Answers

**_[A Remedy to Cure All Ills, part two]_ **

* * *

The following day is cold, as if the sun itself had sensed the unease of the city and taken to avoid the usual bustle; thick clouds hiding it from view and chilling the stone walls.

Arthur wakes early and for once, Merlin doesn’t barge in loudly announcing breakfast; rather slipping in softly and constantly glancing at the door as if wishing to get out. And Arthur cannot blame him; Merlin has a ridiculously big heart that he constantly wears upon his sleeve, and clearly he is worried for Morgana, just as the Prince. Perhaps not for personal reasons, but more since the servant is friends with Morgana’s maid, Gwen. The Prince has seen the two together in the corridors often enough to know – it appears innocent and platonic as they walk side by side, talking and laughing, but then sometimes they halt by the doors and waits and that’s when this strange pain work its way into Arthur’s gut.

Briefly Arthur wonders if the two linger by the lady’s bedside at night, all on their own, and it’s like slow black poison creeps into his heart.

He dismisses the thought swiftly. Thinking more of it only makes it worse. Besides, it’s probably not true. The two appear to have an entirely amicable relationship. Gaius is there almost relentlessly trying to cure Morgana, find what sickness has befallen her – the pair wouldn’t be alone and definitely not attempt any … any such things.

Why is he even thinking of it? Silently Arthur curses. Such thoughts are only painful and distracting. If Merlin ever found out what went through the Prince’s head on dark doubtful nights –

He stands up abruptly, dropping the knife onto the table. “I’m going to Morgana’s chambers. My father is probably there, as is Gaius. Clean this up.” He gestures as the dishes scattered about.

“Can’t I come with –“ Merlin starts. Arthur catches the pleading look on his face, the wide worried eyes, and almost crumbles.

But then he shakes his head. What’s he doing? Normally, a mere servant’s plead would not concern him, not make him falter and rightly so it shouldn’t. But Merlin …

“I know you wish to visit her, but I can’t allow it, not while my father’s there. He’s still …“

He halts. _Sensitive_ isn’t quite the right word – and anyway, Merlin is but a servant and should not have knowledge of how the King personally fares, for it would only risk striking worry into the citizens of Camelot, if rumours were to be spread. No, some things are better left unsaid. The Prince holds the servant’s gaze for a moment longer, clearing his throat.

“Anyway, I’ll call for you later. Perhaps then we can go see her, but I cannot guarantee anything. Just go about your usual duties for now.”

A small sigh escapes the servant’s lips. “Fine, sire. Will do.”

* * *

Just as Arthur is walking down the corridor along which Morgana’s chambers are located - the servants giving him a wide berth, for the Prince’s face is dark and his steps hurried - a guard runs up to him. The man’s hair is askew beneath the helmet, and telling by the depth and speed of his breath he has just run some way, obviously in a rush.

“Sire! Sire, please, wait. I bear a message.” The guard bows deeply and Arthur pauses, waiting patiently for him to continue. He’s not in the mood for this! If it’s just some peasant requesting an audience he’ll pass it onto the advisors for now. He simply cannot handle any of their petty affairs now when Morgana is lying in that room, cold and pale and –

“There’s a man by the castle gates, requesting your audience.”

“Is it a commoner? Fetch Lord Ector for now and tell him to take care of it. I don’t have time for this.“

The guard hesitates for a moment. “No, sire, it’s not just a commoner. He is a physician.”

“Yes? Speak up before I lose my patience altogether!”

Perhaps he ought to tell Merlin to dismiss impudent guards such as this right away when they come knocking on his chamber door. He has no time for this!

But the next words make him freeze. “The man claims that he has come to aid the Lady Morgana, sire, and that he has a remedy to cure all ills.”

* * *

Peasant or not – maybe the man might just be a fraud, a _liar_ – but still, he claims he can cure any sickness. If there’s even the slightest chance …

Hesitation cannot be afforded. Gaius has already said Morgana has just a few days left. Maybe even hours. He has tried everything possible he knows. Yet, naught has helped. Surely, even if this man is a lying stranger, it’s worth a try?

In Morgana’s room, his father is kneeling by the bedside, distraught. His face has grayened and frowns are painted on his brow, and his hands stroke the lady’s forehead distractedly. While the king doesn’t react at his entrance, Gaius looks up and nods in acknowledgement.

“Any change yet?” Arthur asks, a tiny hope still burning in his chest. If …

But the old man shakes his head. “I’m sorry sire, but there’s no sign of recovery. She has hours, maybe less.”

Arthur closes his eyes tight and leans against the wall, letting his palms supporting the weight. His voice is raw, harsh; his eyelids burn briefly. Morgana –  ever the stubborn impudent warrior-princess – she simply cannot … cannot disappear.

_It just cannot be allowed to happen._

“We cannot let her die!”

Below, Uther draws a ragged breath. Abruptly Arthur realizes just how fragile his father is, how tight the scarred hands are gripping Morgana’s smooth unblemished one. “Arthur, please …”

His father never begs, is never that _brittle_. He never cries. If Morgana doesn’t make it, if she’s so brutally taken away from them, Arthur realizes now, his father may not recover. He may descend into some madness, fuelled by grief, and Arthur himself might lose himself to sorrow also. Morgana has always been like a sister to him and has always, always been there. He’s never been without her, never been alone.

“There’s a man, he requests an audience,” he says, searching his father’s face for any signs. Sign of hope or recognition. “He claims he can cure her.”

“How?” Gaius asks shortly, eyes narrowing.

Also the King raises his voice. “Ridiculous! He cannot possibly know what ill has struck her, even less cure her!”

Arthur takes a deep breath. Then he says, mustering a calm tone: “He says he has a remedy to cure all ills.”

“That is impossible,” the physician exclaims, words laced with suspicion. “Many things remain undiscovered to man, and there are some things no man can cure. I have attempted any logical method I know to rouse the lady, and nothing has worked –“

“For Morgana’s sake, surely we should at least hear him out. What do we have to lose?” Arthur reaches out to grasp his father’s shoulder. “Please, father.”

“He might just be a charlatan hoping for a quick shilling,” Gaius warns.

 _“I don’t care_! Morgana is _dying_. If there is the slightest chance of saving her, then give him a shilling! Father, I beg of you. This might be our last chance – should we truly waste it?”

At last the King raises his head, and he nods solemnly, fixing Arthur down with a stare. There’s fear as well as hope in there. Arthur knows that look. It’s a warning: if this fails, he shall be found responsible. But also if it works and this stranger can truly heal Morgana, Uther will be grateful for a long time to come; it’ll be a work well done, as if this were a quest or battle which Arthur had to master.

“Send for him,” the King demands.

Arthur is already half-way to the door when the verdict comes.

* * *

He really does not like armour. It’s always too cold (or too hot after lying under the sun for too long) and heavy, and it rusts. At least it rusts if he doesn’t go back and clean and polish every day. It’s such a bother. If men could simply stop fighting and doing other stupid things that wouldn’t require them to wear armour!

It’s is the reason Merlin is down in the armoury right now, where the air is cool, constantly biting to his skin. Sometimes he carries the chainmail up to Gaius’ rooms and does the cleaning there, where it’s slightly warmer and not as dark, but the physician always complains when he does and right now, when Morgana is ill, he doesn’t want to bring the old man’s mood down even more. He’s weary enough as it is.

He is sitting cross-legged by one of the tables, having an argument in his head, trying to distract himself from worrying about Lady Morgana, when one of the other servants in the castle open the door and calls out his name. Merlin looks up, frowning. What now? Surely Arthur couldn’t want to give him another chore yet? It had only been half an hour at most since he left the Prince’s chambers.

“Merlin, you’re needed in the Throne Room,” the servant says. He glances at him questioningly, probably wondering why the Prince would make such a request when his servant obviously is busy with another chore, but Merlin can only shrug in reply. With a clinking sound the metal pieces are set down on the table, and Merlin rises to his feet.

“Is something wrong?” he asks carefully. “Has something happened?”

“I’ve no idea. His highness said it was urgent though.”

A sudden thought enter Merlin’s mind unwillingly, making his chest tighten with anxiety. Had Lady Morgana worsened? Had someone else also been struck down with her illness? But then, why would Arthur call him to the Throne Room of all places?

He quickens his step.

When he arrives there, he finds the Prince, the King and Gaius conversing with a man he’s never seen before. He’s not a servant, and he might not be from Camelot at all. His robe is brown and his clothes marred by weather or time, or both; but that his nothing unusual.

But his face is horribly scarred – Merlin has never seen marks like that before, and doubts he would forget it if he had – stretched across his cheek and up the brow, giving him a rather intimidating look. They’re faded by years but still painfully sharp against the rest of his pale skin. His eyes are dark and misty as if by thought, his hands wrung together. They too are worn as if they’d been burned long ago and never quite healed. While his stance is relaxed and at ease, Merlin glimpses a slight furrow on his forehead.

Merlin approaches slowly and bows his head, unable to completely look away from the stranger, but the King doesn’t notice, deeply in conversation with the man. Gaius too is distracted, but Arthur feels his presence and beckons him forward.

“Where’ve you been?” the Prince mutters in that stressed and annoyed tone he only uses when under pressure. “You’re late.”

“Sorry, I was in the armoury,” Merlin answers quietly, distracted. He glances at the scarred man as the speaking voices are raised – Gaius sounds either disbelieving or upset, it’s difficult to tell. It might be something else entirely.

Arthur grunts in response, but returns his focus upon the other conversation in the room.

“An antidote for everything?” the old healer is saying, disbelief evident in his voice. “That is hardly possible.”

 _An antidote for everything?_ echo in the hall, between the stone, and Merlin barely holds back a gasp. He must’ve let it show on his face, because briefly Arthur glances at him, and Merlin bites his lip to stay silent. There is no way for him to reveal how the man’s words has struck a chord deep down in his heart, touching the hope lying trembling there.

_An antidote for everything…_

The scarred man meets the physician’s claim (or is it an accusation?) calmly. “There are not many ills that I have not seen and successfully treated. May I ask what sickness that has struck the Lady?”

“An infection of some kind,” Gaius replies. “Her body is shutting down seemingly for no reason.”

“And your treatment?”

“Yarrow and rosemarine. For her blood-flow to quicken.”

The scarred man nods thoughtfully. “Interesting.”

“Why? What would you suggest?”

“No, no, that is all fine. All good. That is, if it’s the right diagnosis.”

This startles Uther, whose face is dark, heavy rings beneath his eyes and a tightness around his mouth; it’s obvious he’s both concerned and grieving. “What would your diagnosis be?” he asks the scarred man.

“Well, without examining the patient…” he says leisurely, and Arthur takes a step forward without hesitation.

“He should be allowed to examine her, father.”

The King draws a breath, then looks at his son and nods in agreement. A frown flickers by on Gaius’ face, but Merlin barely notices, because he’s staring transfixed at the scarred man, hands knotting as he fights with himself not to step up and ask – ‘Can you really cure anything?’ – not just because he’s in the presence of the King, but because of the fear that the hope curling in his belly would be smothered.

“I would need my equipment. It shall take but a moment to fetch them, my lord; they are by the inn.”

“Of course. A guest chamber shall be prepared for you. My manservant shall be at your disposal during your stay, Edwin,” Arthur says, and normally at such an order Merlin would’ve kicked him in the shin – Arthur never really lends him out like that, but he can imagine the Prince doing it simply to annoy him - but now he is too distracted.

The man, Edwin, bows again to the royals. “Thank you, sire. I shall need to look at the patient to be able to determine the exact cause of the disease, sire.”

“Of course,” Arthur responds jerkily, clearly distracted by his step-sister’s illness. “Come with me.”

“I need my instruments and tools, milord; it shall only take a moment to fetch them.”

Merlin jerks into action when the Prince nudges his elbow, telling him to go after the scarred man. His eyes remains fixed on the man, a constant thought remains at the back of his head and he can’t chase it away.

_Can he really cure anything?_

* * *

The trip to the lower town is swift. The scarred man glances at him but once, briefly, in an almost dismissing manner – perhaps because he’s a servant. While not serving the King here, Edwin is a physician and a knowledgeable man, thus his status is greater. It doesn’t bother Merlin much, because there’s something unsettling about having the man’s dim eyes fixed upon him. He follows the man quietly.

Today the sky is grey and the sun hangs low, almost sickly, on the sky, pale and distant. Edwin has taken up lodgings in the Rising Sun, the biggest and murkiest of the city’s inns. Merlin’s only seen it from the outside before, never having any reason to approach it.

As he waits for Edwin to speak with the barman and owner, Merlin glances around. The smoky tavern is filled with men in filthy clothes, their raw laughter cutting through the air; they are drinking beer or playing dice. Some converse in loud voices, others in whispers, their eyes wandering about the room distrustfully. The only woman present is the serving girl, busily walking between the tables and the bar. “Come,” Edwin says, leading him up a stair.

The room is small and simple, a single mattress upon the floor. There’s a bedside table and not much else. In a corner, proper up against a wall, is a large bag, which Merlin sees is half-open and overflowing with books and boxes. Edwin kneels down and picks up one or two of the boxes on top, then gestures Merlin to pick up the rest. Fortunately it’s not as heavy as it looks.

“Now we must hurry to the Lady Morgana. There isn’t much time.”

* * *

Once the items have been carried to her chambers, Edwin ushers them all out – even Gaius, about which Merlin’s a bit surprised. Everyone else might just be in the way, a distraction, but surely it’d be useful for Edwin to be aided by another physician?

But he’s just a servant so nobody would listen to him anyway. Along with the Prince, who too doesn’t seem to like the fact he’s now allowed inside the room, he lingers outside the door, impatiently waiting.

Gaius is not there; he’s gone with the King, waiting in an adjourning chamber. Uther is understandably distracted. To stand or pace down a corridor would only be unsettling for both him and Gaius.

Merlin can’t hinder himself, murmuring to the Prince; “Do you really think Edwin can cure anything, sire?”

Even if the Prince knows little more than he, he wants to hear it, wants to hear Arthur’s expressed belief. Because if he can – if Edwin _can_ …

Arthur is silent for a moment, mulling over the question. Then he shifts from one foot to the other and says, “I don’t know, but I hope he can cure Morgana at least.”

* * *

After just minutes, Edwin opens the door. His face has lightened, and this sparks hope in Arthur, the Prince not hesitating to ask: “Well?”

“I bear joyful news, sire. There was no infection. I have managed to give her my cure successfully.”

“She’s – she’s alright?”

The scarred man nods, and relief lightens Arthur’s face, and for Merlin it’s like a heavy stone has been dropped off his chest. “ _Thank ye Gods_! When will she awaken?” Arthur inquires, impatience bubbling over the edges, making it difficult for him to stand still.

“In a matter of moments I believe, sire.”

Without hesitating, the Prince walks right past the man and into the Lady’s chambers. Merlin sets to follow and Edwin moves out of the way to let them pass, without a word, but his gaze finds the warlock for a moment – Merlin furrows his brows slightly, but the physician doesn’t hold his eyes for long, and the moment is broken.

And as predicted, the Lady is on the borders of waking as the Prince enters, Merlin close on his heels; Arthur settles at her bedside. A bit uncertain if it’d be all right for him to sit down, the servant lingers standing a bit behind the Prince, hands knotting behind his back.

“Morgana?” Arthur asks. “Can you hear me?”

“Arthur?” As if confused, she blinks at him, her eyes slowly clearing. “What are you doing here?”

“You were ill, but we found a cure.” The Prince gestures to get Merlin’s attention: “Go and fetch Gaius and my father.”

The servant nods and hurries to do as he bids. He’d like to stay in Morgana’s room to see that the Lady truly is fine. As he locates the King and Gaius and tells them she’s awake, Merlin sees for the first time as Uther’s face cracks, shining with relief and joy; something he’ll probably not see for a long while afterwards.

Once they return, the King rushes up to Morgana’s side quickly. “Oh, Morgana! I am so glad you are all right! How do you feel? Are you in any pain?”

“No, I feel fine,” Morgana says. Her face is brighter than before and her voice stronger, clearer. “Though I remember little of what has happened.”

“I found this in her ear,” Edwin says softly, making himself known, and as heads turn in his direction he shows them a piece of previously white cloth now matted with red.

“God in Heaven!” gasps the King, flinching.

Arthur hisses sharply: suddenly, silence falls over the chamber, the soft murmurs between the King and Morgana fading away. “You should be glad you had not administered more rosemary,” Edwin continues, face toward Gaius. “To imagine what such an action would have led to…”

“I have treated the Lady for many days, but there was no blood in her ear at any time,” Gaius says defensively.

Merlin’s gaze flickers between the two men, and then toward the Lady. While gaunt and yet pale, her face is now full of life, and there’s no trace of blood what he can see. Gwen is propping her up against the pillows more comfortably, but the maidservant also hears what Edwin says and glances upwards to meet Merlin’s eyes. A frown flickers across her brow. All this happens quietly and quickly, and – too early to draw any conclusions – Merlin can only shrug helplessly. He doesn’t know any more than Gwen; cannot prove or disprove Edwin’s words.

Part of him doesn’t want to. A part of him which is slowly growing in his chest doesn’t want Edwin to be wrong, to have lied, to be a fraud – it settles a slight throbbing fear at the pit of his stomach, threatening to smother the hope that’s also been kindled there.

“Then how would you explain this proof?” Edwin says.

“I …“ Gaius halts, seemingly at loss for words. “I … I cannot. But I have no memory of there being any blood.”

“All men make mistakes,” Uther says sharply. He glances at his beloved ward. “Let us not discuss this now. For she is not in any imminent danger now?”

“Not at all, sire,” Edwin assures them quickly, and smiles slightly. “She is out of all harm now.”

* * *

Merlin stands slightly behind Arthur as usual as he observes them out of the corner of his eye, the King and the Prince and the Lady – colour has now returned to her cheeks - sitting on perched seats before the court: his main focus is fixed on the scarred man in the middle of the chamber.

“I will stay to see my patient has fully recovered. Then, I shall take my leave.”

“Surely you wish for a reward!” the King says, his tone leaving room for little or no argument. “Stay for some time. I am sure Gaius and you could exchange much wisdom and knowledge.”

It’s not an offer; it’s an order, and Edwin would be a fool to refuse. The scarred man knows this and he bows at the waist. “If this is His Majesty’s wishes, then I shall adhere. I shall linger for some more time in your glorious city, sire. Gaius is well-renowned throughout the land and I look forward to perhaps learning from him.”

“Excellent! Then it is settled. Please, dine with my family and I tonight,” Uther says, nodding approvingly when Edwin bows again in confirmation.

Once court has been dissolved, Merlin follows Arthur out. The Prince is already queuing a long list of chores for the servant to do, polishing and sharpening and scrubbing, and Merlin nods when he (thinks he) is supposed to.

“…and Edwin says he requires an assistant. Gaius is far too busy and important, and the only person with any kind of experience in the matter is _you_ – unimaginable as it may sound – therefore, you’re most fit for the job.“ Arthur frowns for some reason; Merlin isn’t sure, maybe the prat is just annoyed he won’t be able to annoy the servant if he starts working for Edwin, even if it may be half-time. “I shall speak to the Chief of Staff about it. But that’ll have to wait; the stables have been very neglected as of late.”

“Too busy? _I’m_ busy too!” Merlin splutters in protest once the Prince’s words register.

For the first time in ages, a smirk twists at the corners of Arthur’s mouth. “Didn’t you listen at all? Once you’ve finished with mucking out by horses, you can tend to my armour and oh, clean the floors in the chambers as well.” He makes a gesture with his right hand, ignoring the servant’s grimace. “Well, off you go then!”


	16. Part 15: I Am Both a Shadow and a Light [A Remedy to Cure All Ills, part three]

**Part 15:**

# I Am Both a Shadow and a Light

**_[A Remedy to Cure All Ills, part three]_ **

* * *

A guest chamber has been prepared in the eastern wing of the castle. Merlin had carried all of Edwin's belongings there earlier, but then not all of it had been unpacked. As he goes to the man's chambers now, he finds the packs have been emptied and put away. A few candles are burning. The curtains are half-way drawn, as if the man prefers the gloom over the sharp sunlight.

The room is filled with furniture fit for royalty, as visiting dignitaries have been given this room in the past. The bed has been neatly made and the room already looks rather lived in. In the centre of the chamber, there's a table that doesn't quite fit in – it must've been brought up from some storage. The surface is rough and worn.

The table is filled with both familiar and unfamiliar objects. Some he's seen similar to in Gaius' rooms; others are completely new to him. Curiously he pokes at the nearest item, some kind of wheel with weights on it; it looks to be metallic, but it's really not as heavy as he'd expected it to be and it turns forward on its axis easily at the small touch, bumping into a nearby time-glass with a sharp clink. Sharply Merlin draws back his hand. He doesn't want to break anything and make the scarred man angry with him.

"It was originally designed for alchemy," Edwin intones behind him, smiling slightly at the servant's curiousity. Merlin turns around, bowing his head to him like one ought to do before one's elders and those of higher position (he doesn't want to give a bad impression), somewhat startled that he hasn't heard the man approach.

The word clicks in Merlin's mind; he must've heard Gaius say it before or perhaps read it in a book. "Making gold?" he asks.

He's never been sure such a thing is possible, but, then again, he's magic – a contradiction in itself – so the possibility can't simply be discarded. If he were able, he'd happily transform worthless objects into gold, but he's tried foolish things like that in the past to feed him and his mother in the cold winters, and never succeeded.

The man raises an eyebrow. "You have an interest in science?"

"Well, science is knowledge."

"Indeed. It has the answers to everything."

"Maybe. But it can't explain love," Merlin blurts, and then bites his tongue. He hadn't meant to say that out loud!

The man merely looks amused. "So you are in love, boy?"

"Err, no, I meant – I meant feelings, emotions," he says quickly, averting his eyes for a moment in embarrassment. Surely he sounds like some scatter-brained fool. "Science can't explain that."

"You seem quite bright for a servant," Edwin remarks.

"Oh, don't be fooled, I'm not that bright," Merlin quips, shaking his head.

"Oh? Something tells me otherwise."

The man fixes him suddenly with a stare and Merlin feels like rooted to the ground, as the man searches him with his eyes. What's he thinking? That he's a too-open-mouthed-fool for his own good? That he really is clever? Or something else entirely? Slightly uncomfortable, Merlin shifts from one foot to the other.

"What's your name, boy?" Edwin asks.

"Merlin. My name's Merlin." Hesitantly he adds (as if the man already wasn't aware); "Um, I was sent here by the Prince to assist you, I'm a servant - so if there's anything you need anything - need something to be fetched or something, I could fix that."

"Of course, of course," Edwin says and nods, and the spell is broken. "I need some ingredients for a tonic I am making. There's an apothecary in town, I suppose?" Merlin nods, remembering all the trips he's taken down there for Gaius; the little house is filled with the musky scent of herbs and the ever-burning hearth keeping the room dry, and there's a slightly hunchback old man behind the desk. "Well then, I shall write a list. I want you to go down and buy what I need."

The man reaches for a piece of parchment resting on the nearby table and scribbles down a few words. When given the list, Merlin recognizes some words like hawthorn but some are unfamiliar. He shrugs; it's probably some medicine things he doesn't understand yet.

"And here are some coins." A small pouch is put in his hand. There's a lot of money in there! Briefly Merlin wonders if the man would notice if he were to grab a penny for his own and buy some sweets at the marketplace. (Gaius never lets him do that.)

"Is there anything else, sir?" Merlin asks politely.

"Not at the moment. Off you go."

* * *

He returns (a handful of paper-wrapped caramels hiding in his pocket) to find Edwin's room to find it empty. A few candles are burning, and the curtains are half-closed, letting in only some pale shafts of sunlight; the rest of the chamber lies in shadows. The items on the table haven't been stirred since last he was here, except for one thing – a small wooden box, previous hidden, is now lying atop of an open book. Unable to help his curiousity, Merlin approaches, setting down the ingredients from the apothecary on the nearest available spot; then he reaches out a hand toward the box. It is as if beckoning him. The wood is entirely usual – cold, smooth apart from some knots within the wood; there's nothing usual about it at all. Yet, there's  _something_...

There are some inscriptions atop of it. Looking more closely, Merlin's eyes widen – that's the language of the Old Religion! He knows some of Gaius' books are written in that tongue, since it's an ancient language, spoken not only by magic folk but by healers and other wise people as well. He trails a finger over the words, brows furrowing in concentration as he translates them.

Suddenly there's a noise behind him – a door opening, footsteps. Startled Merlin drops the box before he's able to translate the whole sentence; the lid remains tightly closed. The box clatters onto the worktop table. Quickly he turns around, coming face to face with Edwin.

"Oh – I – um, sorry, I was just –" he starts but the man holds up a hand.

"It's quite all right. I understand you must be curious."

Merlin quietly breathes a sigh of relief that the man isn't furious at him – Gaius certainly wouldn't have been happy to find his ward's hands pawing at his medical instruments! "Sorry, sir," he says again.

The scarred man sends him a short, sharp look – a warning:  _don't stick your nose into things you oughn't_  – but then his face smoothens and he walks over to the table. He nods pleased when seeing the herbs Merlin has brought. "No harm has been done. I hear you have been helping the court physician in the past. Do you know anything about medicine?"

"A little, what Gaius has taught me," Merlin responds.

"Of course," the man nods. "He is your mentor, correct? I have heard much about him. He is indeed renowned for his knowledge and skills as a physician."

"He's the best physician I know," Merlin says at once, but then remembers that the man standing before him is the one who cured Lady Morgana – not Gaius. However, the man just smiles without being angry.

"Perhaps I could teach you some more. I am sure your mind is sharper than most people give you credit for, and if you are to be my assistant I need someone knowledgeable by my side."

"Really? You'll teach  _me_?"

Edwin pulls out one of his books, and though Merlin has been instructed by Gaius and old tomes before, something makes him a lot more curious now than usually. "Here, let me show you …"

* * *

It's nightfall, and Merlin returns home. Gaius has prepared dinner and the beckoning of warm food is irresistible. "So how is working for Edwin?" the old man asks rather casually as they settle by the table, bowls filled with warm broth.

"Great!" Merlin responds enthusiastically and grins. "He's been showing me how to make some concoctions to drive off fevers and stuff, and letting me read in some of his books."

"I can't remember you being so keen about medicine before, despite the numerous times I have tried to tell you about it," his uncle says seriously and for a moment Merlin blushes, slightly ashamed (it's not  _his_  fault that his head drops when his uncle starts talking about bloodletting and the basics on the human anatomy!), until he realizes Gaius is struggling to hide an amused smile.

"Well, you'd shoo me away whenever I got too close to the cauldron," the warlock murmurs and the old man raises an eyebrow.

"I am aware you are rather clumsy, Merlin, and not all of my medicines are easy or cheap to produce."

"Did you know Edwin has books written in the language of the Old Religion? At least half a dozen."

"Really? I wonder where he got his hands on those," Gaius muses. "The King would hardly allow it, if he knew." Convincing the King to let the court physician keep his old tomes had been difficult, and Gaius doubts that Uther would let a stranger keep such books, even if they've saved Lady Morgana's life: after all, even if not having anything to do with magic, simply having a text writing in the old language is suspicious.

Merlin bites his lip, his eagerness to tell his mentor everything he's learned today momentarily stalled. "Well, I told him that, when I saw the books ... Edwin said he's not showed them to anyone else, that's he's been careful ... I promised I'd not tell anyone. Gaius, you won't—will you? Please, he helped Morgana, those books can't possibly cause any harm to anybody."

"No, my lad," Gaius says with a sigh – there's a shadow on the old face, flickering past but it might just be the gloomy eve, and it smoothens over before Merlin can ask. "But I'd preferred it if you did not know about them either," the old man murmurs concernedly.

"They're really interesting though. There's a lot about uncommon sicknesses or old cures. There are no spells though; I don't  _think_  they're magic..." Merlin chews his bottom lip. "He'd hardly use magic right under the King's nose!"

Besides, he hasn't felt that aura that he's felt around every other magic person he's met – maybe it's possible for a person to hide it, Merlin doesn't know. If Edwin has magic the warlock cannot tell. Part of him hopes the man doesn't. The King would be furious, not caring that the man saved the Lady: he'd be sent to the pyre at once.

 _The scar ... it looks like an old burn_ , his mind quietly supplies against his will. He doesn't want to get second thought, doesn't want to start doubting, but –  _Can he have met the fire before?_

Shaking his head to chase away the unwanted thoughts, he looks at his mentor. "Anyway, he's asked me to gather some supplies tomorrow morning; I need to get to bed early."

"Of course," Gaius says mildly. There's still that slight frown lingering on his brow. Merlin wonders what's going through his mind. Maybe he's still displeased that he wasn't allowed to be there when Edwin cured Morgana, to observe and learn from him.  _Hmm, maybe I could talk with Edwin about it,_  Merlin thinks,  _ask if he'd spend some time with Gaius, I'm sure being able to have intricate medical discussions will sheer my uncle up some!_

"I'll wake you up at sunrise. It wouldn't do to be late."

* * *

Morgana is a lot better now. Her old energy is back, and so are her jibes. Arthur is naturally grateful albeit annoyed about the latter, and has taken to visiting her for a short while every day; as pestering as she is, he's concerned about her for she's the closest to a sister he has.

While Merlin is assisting Edwin, helping the scarred man settling in, Arthur has called for his old manservant to work for him in the days. Morris works in quiet, without complaint, and for the first time in months Arthur gets called 'sire' more times a day than he gets by his name. It's startlingly disconcerting.

Despite hating having to admit it, Arthur misses his manservant's prattle and bad jokes, those mischievous smiles revealing how young the servant really is – by the gods, it's only been two days and he's run into the boy in the corridors at times even, and giving him some pointless chores merely for the amusement of seeing his annoyed spluttering; he's spotted him from afar helping Edwin, walking to and fro with supplies,  _and_   _yet ..._ yet Arthur's days have never felt this  _empty_.

"Do you require your armour today, sire?" Morris inquires in a perfect servantly tone. No haughtiness, no trace of sarcasm. There are no jibes about the thick-headedness of knights.

"I have training later today," Arthur says, reaching for the over-filled plate resting on the tray placed on the table. Lunch is so overly extravagant than what he's gotten used to: there's wine, not water, and the honeyed bread lying beside it suddenly does not look as tempting as it used to.

Arthur's hand hovers for a moment above the cup of wine without grasping it.

"Sire?" asks the servant quizzically. "Is anything wrong, sire?"

"No. Fetch me some water."

Morris looks utterly befuddled, never having received such an order from a dining royal before. "Water, sire?"

"Yes – don't just stand there! I don't wish for this wine. And this honeyed bread doesn't appetite me; get rid of it."

Eyes comically wide, the servant struts up to the table and takes the cup and the bread. "I shall be back shortly, sire." Still wearing that confused expression, Morris takes his leave. As the door closes, Arthur draws a sigh, rubbing at his temples.

What is wrong with him? He's never felt like this before. Just because his usual manservant isn't here to serve him it doesn't mean he has to lose his appetite! And prefer water over wine! He's never before...

The Prince heaves a sigh. He's pushed away all such notions – they are but the thoughts of a naive boy; an unattainable desire – for weeks and weeks; why must he grow so weak now and give in?! It's not possible, the yearning growing in his gut, his heart – it's not just a matter of lust. Such a thing can be remedied quickly. Lust is swift and passionate, but it passes and he could just order his servant to his bed.

But Arthur knows he hasn't the heart to do so. He can't bear the thought of using his manservant in that way, probably  _forcing_  him into something he does not want – if he ever did that, Merlin would hate him forever.

A Prince shouldn't be bothered by that. A mere servant's hate means nothing. Nothing! And yet – if Merlin were to hate him, or worse, become  _frightened_  of him ... (those blue eyes staring up at him hurtfully) ...

No. He cannot let that happen.

This is different. This craving, this hunger making him ache, making his thoughts stray to paths they haven't before. He finds himself staring far too often, losing control of his mind and one day he fears he shall also lose control of his body. What then? What should he do?

"Damn it," Arthur mutters on his breath, along with a few more foul words, echoing coldly in the empty room.

He could go down to the lower town. Tonight even. Sneak past the guards and disguise himself, find some girl in an alleyway and give her a silver coin for her services and her silence. He could. He's the Prince, so he cannot do it in the open, but still, if say his men would find out they would not resent him - surely they wouldn't! – for he is a man, and men are able to do such things. Men have needs. Yet, why does his chest twinge at the thought?

It's almost like … almost like  _unfaithfulness_.

How utterly ridiculous!

How can it be infidelity? There's no commitment between then, no promises; and there cannot be, because they are master and servant, and stories like theirs rarely have happy endings. Arthur isn't naïve; he can't keep dreaming any longer. He cannot afford it. It's distracting him and could prove to be fatal.

_I shouldn't let this go on!_

"Sire?" The door opens. "Sire, I brought you water." A pitcher is placed on the table along with a new goblet.

Arthur stares for a moment, like confused, at the pitcher and then glances at the servant who has taken position by the foot of the table, waiting expectantly for new orders. Then, remembering abruptly where he is and  _when_  he is, he reaches for the freshly filled goblet, mechanically, and takes one large gulp after the other.

 _Maybe I'd sack him,_  he thinks briefly _. Let him remain Edwin's assistant permanently! Let him run errands for him across the castle and smile at other people while I do my own duties and never mentions his name again. Father would be pleased. He thinks Merlin is but a fool, constantly bumbling and in the way …_

…  _but …_

"Sire, is there anything you require?" Morris asks quietly, in that unobtrusive way a perfect servant should; not in that sarcastic, exasperating way that Merlin would – and he dips his head slightly in respect and enquiry.

"No," Arthur answers shortly.

Abruptly, he wants to be alone; even if the servant cannot hear his thoughts, it feels as if he could, and it makes shame rise clenching in his chest hot and fierce. It's fear, he realizes, fear that the servant will hear the betrayal of his mind and heart and somehow rely word to his father, even if that is completely impossible.

The servant cannot read his thoughts. Still, Arthur's heart has begun thundering and he cannot stop it. He can't let the servant see; can't let his weakness betray him.

So the Prince gestures toward the door, directing the servant towards it. "No," he says again. "I'll not require you anymore today. You may go."

* * *

"It can't be easy," Edwin speaks up suddenly, when the servant is sorting some bottles for him, and Merlin nearly drops the vial he's carrying, whipping his head around in shock. His hand tightens instinctively around the glass.

"How … What do you mean?" he asks, shaken. He'd not expected to be acknowledged, and the words hit a chord inside him with such bitterness, it almost makes him choke. The man can't know, can he?

Or can Edwin see? See his differences? Sense his magic? Or is there something else, something he's said or done that's given either of his secrets away? He's been so careful, and Edwin's only been at the castle for a few mere hours, there's no  _possible way_  –

"I couldn't help but notice how you do not seem quite alike the other servants, Merlin," the scarred man continues and takes the box from Merlin's hands, placing it on the table. His voice is like oil, smooth and cool. "I've observed you for some time. You do not follow the other servants in the corridors, but neither do you walk where the noblemen and royalty do. You clear your own path. There's something about you … something …" There it is again, the slight smile, just barely perceptive. "I think one could say that you are -  _unique_."

(Nobody but his mother has called him that before … also Gaius has called him special; he's heard murmurs of  _strange_  and various other insults as well; yes, Arthur especially tends to use such adjectives – but not  _unique_.)

Edwin looks interested, in a manner which no nobleman or important person has ever paid him heed before; it both chills and warms Merlin and he wonders if this how it feels to be important.

"Is anything ailing you, Merlin?"

The answer rests on the tip of his tongue but, then, something makes him pause, tugging at his insides and his face starts burning. He cannot tell, not to a  _stranger_ , even if they're a physician. He'd barely been able to tell Gaius! It had hurt so much, even if there'd been comfort and relief after the secret was off his chest – he's not sure if he can take another wave of shame and pity so soon.

And does he really want anyone else to find out? Oughtn't he first tell Gwen and Arthur…? Those that he calls his friends, do they not deserve to know the truth before anyone else?

Conscience gnaws at his heart like a leech, tenacious and coarse.  _Friends_  … Arthur may not see him as such, but Merlin has this tiny hope of the Prince and him one day not just being master and servant, that sharp line resting between them; and sometimes Arthur had even glanced at him as if …

If he ever is to make Arthur trust him as his friend, shouldn't he be told  _before_  this stranger gets to know?

Merlin bites his lip. But if … if Edwin could cure it … if there'd  _be_  no such secret …

The man's cold irises are fixed on his face. "So there is, then," Edwin says calmly.

"Is it true?" Merlin can't stop himself from asking. "That you can cure anything?"

The man looks at him and smiles, and Merlin, who is apprehensive and overjoyed and scared at the thought of it being true, is too distracted at what this would mean to notice the gleam in Edwin's eyes.

"Anything, Merlin.  _Anything_."

* * *

It's what he's wanted all along, isn't it? A normal body – a normal life. A body like that of a normal boy, not this in-between, not this abnormal skin.

What about his magic then? He lives and breathes and  _is_  magic – could it too just be taken away, gotten rid of…? If that happened, then what and who would he be? A nobody? His heart pounds wildly and blood rushes loudly past his ears at this thought. If there was no magic, would there be no heavy burden on his shoulders, would there be a  _destiny_  if it disappeared?

Such a thought is both haunting and relieving. He shouldn't speak of it, it's so close to his heart and he doesn't  _want_  it to go away. He wants it to stay … Like he'd told Gaius several months ago, when he arrived.

 _Without my magic I'm nothing_ _**.** _

If only it wasn't so… If only he didn't feel so  _dependent_  on it … then perhaps he could get used to the thought of not having the power flowing through his veins. His strange body on the other hand – if it could just be moulded into a better shape, something acceptable, then things would work out. He wouldn't have to hide anymore, sneak into dark corners.

He shouldn't mention it at all to Edwin, shouldn't make him suspicious. It couldn't just get  _ripped away_  from him – no, it seems impossible. Unless Edwin's cure could do that … however it doesn't matter, he won't mention it and he'll keep it because he  _wants_ it _._

But his body, it's his  _body_  that he wants to change and if he does that, everything will be so much simpler.

He wonders if changing his body will hurt. Surely it  _must_  hurt - he's seen Gaius curing or trying to cure people enough to know there's more to it that ill-tasting medicines; there are knives and blood. Somehow that's not what he's frightened of, not the pain, but change itself. If it really is possible … his whole life might take a different turn.

But. It would be worth it. He'd embrace it.  _Normality_.

No more hiding or mortification or sneaking away, no more glances over his shoulder, no more  _ **shame**_.

_One secret less. One lie less._

* * *

"Oh, hello Merlin!" Gwen rushes up to him. Her hands are full of laundry, but she appears mindless of it; some of the cloth is slowly but steadily starting to slip from the pile. Merlin catches one right before it falls. "Oh, thank you. I haven't seen you all day."

"I know, I've been busy helping Edwin, finding him supplies. I think he means to follow Gaius on one of his rounds in the lower town today."

The maidservant nods. But she doesn't smile; rather, she looks apprehensive, and she glances up and down the corridor before speaking – there is just one or two other busy servants passing by and none of them stops to listen.

"There's something about him, Merlin," Gwen whispers, "about Edwin. I can't say why, but I just don't trust him."

The warlock bites his lip. "He healed Morgana. Surely –"

"There was no blood in her ear. I  _know_  it. Please, you have to trust me! Gaius saw it too, didn't he? Edwin put that blood there."

That is also what he had feared: the  _doubt_. What if it's a lie and Edwin really cannot cure anything? What if he didn't actually heal Morgana, but managed to fake it somehow? What if – what if?

"Maybe the blood was some consequence of him healing the lady," Merlin says hesitantly. He doesn't want to believe Edwin to be fraud, not now, but he trusts Gwen and he knows in his heart that she would never lie to him.

Why does he have to start doubting now?

"But  _how_?" Gwen presses on.

Merlin looks away, ashamed. "…I don't know."

 _He can cure_ _ **anything**_ _. Anything,_  a small voice echoes in his mind, squeezing about his heart, and he wants to believe it too so, so badly.  _Anything_.  _Anything_  -

Gwen briefly touches his arm. "Maybe you should let Prince Arthur know. He'd listen to you, surely …"

"Maybe," he agrees quietly, "but I'm not sure he'd believe me. The lady has been cured after all."

A pained frown crosses the maidservant's face. "Oh. All right. But Merlin, please be careful around Edwin. He makes me … uneasy. And you're so often all alone with him and, well." Gwen bites her lip. Suddenly Merlin doesn't want to hear anymore, the prospect of her words frightening. "Just be careful, all right?"

* * *

_Please be careful._

Oh, what should he  _do_? He couldn't afford doubting now! Edwin said … Edwin said …

And he wants to be normal! This might be his one chance, since his magic won't work and Gaius refuses to try anything. After this there might not be another opportunity. What's he got to lose anyway? Either he gains a new life or this one goes on; there is no third alternative.

 _Gwen wouldn't lie,_  the voice reminds him, but then also;  _not as you lie to her and everybody else._

It would stop all the lies. The lies …

The scarred man is fiddling with his instruments as the servant opens the door, closing it firmly behind him; the healer looks up at him inquiringly.

"I want you to cure me," Merlin says, no traces of doubt in his voice (he hopes).

"So there  _is_  an illness that's befallen you, Merlin," the man says, the faint shadow of a raised eyebrow.

"N-no," he mutters, gaze flickering. He's skipped duties for Arthur to look for Edwin which he knows he'll be in trouble for later, but now that he stands here, he hesitates with fear, embarrassment. Part of him yells at him to turn and run and forget that stupid dream. But – but.

"I mean  _yes_ ," Merlin says. "It's, it's complicated. It's – my body. It's not normal. I want to be normal."

The man studies him with a scrutinizing gaze and Merlin squirms a bit, uncomfortable under the glazed eyes. "I'll need to examine you, of course," Edwin says next.

Merlin swallows hard at the prospect, of standing naked and having the man's foreign hands on his body. But –  _normality_. And despite the feelings of  _wrong wrong wrong_  rising in his throat and he feels a bit ill, he stands still and lets the man approach, lay a hand on his shoulder. It should've been warning enough. But he pushes it away and lets the hand linger (the grip is unfamiliar; nothing like Arthur's strong presence which is somewhat comforting, nothing like Gaius' supportive concern or Gwen's soft gentleness).

"Come to my chambers right at sunset," Edwin says. "I am certain we can come to an arrangement."

* * *

"You're very quiet, Merlin. Is anything amiss?" his mentor asks that afternoon, when Merlin drops by for a late dinner; the old man is pouring over some old books, searching for something. Merlin is too preoccupied to really pay heed or ask what, and finds no appetite, fiddling restlessly with the bread.

It takes a moment for the warlock to react. "No," he says then. "It's fine."

Gaius hums and turns open another tome. It's an endless cycle, the rasping of parchment as he turns the pages, scanning them relentlessly - but for what Merlin doesn't know and he cannot bring himself to care right now. "If anything's bothering you Merlin, you know you can tell me, anytime," the physician says gently.

He nods, not really listening – the voice seems like echoing from far off, he can't quite reach it.

Just a few hours left.

"You better get back to work, Merlin," Gaius says. "You still haven't finished polishing Arthur's armour."

Armour. He could get it done within the blink of an eye, with a snap of his fingers. He could do it quickly within the shadows of his own chamber, or he could go to the armoury where he wouldn't be disturbed. But the room is so cold and dank and dark, like a prison, walls cramping around him, so he gathers up the metal pieces and with intent carries them to the Prince's chambers.

Arthur is sitting by the desk and barely reacts as he enters. His old manservant, who's come back to do those chores that Merlin hasn't the time to do now when he's helping Edwin, isn't present, but the room is entirely spotless. The warlock wonders briefly if Arthur has noticed that and will sack him now he realizes that Merlin can be clumsy and break things and be inefficient.

Pulling up a stool in front of the dimly lit fireplace, Merlin sets to work quietly, breathing in the warm air of the chamber, relishing it. It's comforting somehow, up here, the candle-lights flickering warmly, with the Prince's presence nearby. It's familiar.

He's missed it.

Merlin lingers there for over an hour, silent as he works but occasionally he glances toward the windows. Each tiny link has been polished to perfection and he can see his own reflection in the gauntlets – for some reason, it's unusually pale and gaunt –and his hands are sore and covered with oil.

When placing the items in fine rows on the table, ready to be use tomorrow morning, he – for the third time or so – nearly cuts open his hand on the sword but doesn't make a noise even as he flinches, the blade so near his skin. He works in complete silence, not like usual when he prattles and jibes, unable to stand the quietness – usually Arthur joins in talking and his retorts are as sharp as a knife. But now, the Prince completely forgets he's even there until he places the last leg-guard on the table and asks if he can leave.

"You're done? Finally! What took so long? You're usually slow but not like  _this_ ," Arthur says and mutters something on his breath to hide how startled he is at Merlin's soft voice, words that are out of the warlock's hearing range. Then the man clears his throat and puts down the quill. "Never mind. I need to change. Find me a nightshirt and prepare my bed."

Merlin upturns the thick duvet covers and pulls the requested garment from the wardrobe, laying it on the bed. "Well? Can I go now?" he asks impatiently. Outside, it's rapidly getting dark. Nearly sunset.

"First you're slow and then you're in a hurry," Arthur mutters displeased as he signs a letter before closing the envelope with his seal, which has been heated over the nearest candle. The smell of wax fill Merlin's nostrils. "You're difficult to predict you know; how bad a trait that is, however, I'm not yet certain."

It's sunset now, he needs to hurry to Edwin's guest chambers across the wing, without alerting suspicion. He hates having to look people in the eye and tell lies, even if he's been raised to do so all of his life, but this one is important and maybe, after this, he won't have to lie as much in the future.

"I – I promised to help out Gaius," Merlin murmurs eventually, glancing at the door.

"You're also my servant, not  _his_ ," the prince says in that displeased tone Merlin's always found a bit befuddling. Arthur twiddles the quill between his forefinger and thumb, frowning. He still hasn't changed into a nightshirt. Weren't he so otherwise preoccupied, Merlin would've remarked at it, and there'd be bantering and maybe he'd even smile a bit, but Arthur is still rattled, as if not quite convinced Lady Morgana is all right – he's been strangely quiet ever since Edwin healed her.

"Very well. You may go – but you better be on time tomorrow morning!"

His smile at the prince is looped and there's nothing hindering his thundering heart. By the way Arthur looks at him, it might even be audible, echoing wetly in the chamber, the anxiety clawing at his throat. "Of course. I shall. Sleep well, sire."

The door closes soundly behind him. Arthur stares after the disappearing servant, pondering his offbeat silence, then shakes his head and heads toward the wardrobe to change.

* * *

There's a heavy smell in the room of herbs and candle-wax – odd, it wasn't like that before and the chamber was  _lighter_  before too - much deeper than in Gaius' chambers, and something else Merlin cannot place. Some herb or concoction. It's intoxicating and for a moment, he's dizzy; something flickers across his eyelids. Then he blinks, his sight clears and Edwin is standing before him. The door clicks shut.

The scarred man smiles. "You're here. Very good, Merlin." He stretches out a hand in friendly gesture and motions him further inside. "Come with me."

There's a table, somewhat like the one in Gaius' rooms where he put the dead bodies for examination, empty save for a handful of knives and other medical devices. Unwillingly Merlin shivers at the sight. He forces himself to move forward, taking deep breaths. The windows are covered by shutters and curtains. A few candles flicker in the dark.

 _There's … there's nothing to be scared off_ , he thinks trying to convince himself,  _after this everything will be so much better. Everything will be solved. You will have nothing to be ashamed of…_

Edwin pushes him toward the table. "Lie down. Let me have a look at you."

Merlin does. He swallows harshly. Why is his pulse so rapid? It shouldn't be. He shouldn't be this  _uneasy_. This is what he  _wants_ , isn't it?

Isn't it?

Isn't it…?

"You said that your body bothers you?" Edwin asks, softly, like oil dripping across parchment.

"Y-yes."

"Let me see, then." The words are so short and brisk. The man turns, reaching for something out of Merlin's sight.

The room suddenly feels like it's shrinking around him – growing smaller and smaller trapping him like in a cage, as if he were an animal. But slowly, Merlin reaches up to grasp the lacings of his shirt, breaths rattling tremulously against his ribcage –  _this is what I want,_  that dubious voice echoing inside;  _this is what I want_.

"Is is … How are you going to do it?" Merlin whispers, hands cold, control wavering – why's he whispering? He doesn't want to whisper; doesn't want to seem weak or scared ...

But the knives lying beside the table, the man's slowly nearing hands and the towering dark of the night is making him shiver again. The thought of Edwin  _looking_  at him, or his hands … his  _hands_  …

He swallows, gripping the lacings harshly, eyes fixed on the scarred man's face. It is as if an invisible force has reached out to stop him, because he can't bring himself to pull the garments off of his body.

"It's very simple. Straightforward," Edwin says and smiles again, but now Merlin doesn't find it at all soothing. The man picks up that box, which Merlin had helped carrying and nearly dropped to the floor just the earlier day, and the healer places it onto the table in an angle which makes it hard for Merlin to see what's inside when it's opened.

And then Edwin's murmuring in words that Merlin, even if he's never heard them before, can place with startling clarity. There's a sudden noise, hissing and scratching.

He flinches and stares up at the man, who remains entirely calm and indifferent as if he isn't practicing illegal arts at the very heart of Camelot.

"You're using magic!"

"Yes. Magic." The man looks him in the eye, gaze calm and gleaming. Controlled. Cold.

Merlin's heart pounds so hard.

 _Magic_ …  _he just used magic right in front of me – as if…as if he's not scared I'll run to the king and turn him in. Magic!_

They're the  **same**.

For a moment he makes no sound, can't answer. His throat is parched.  _Magic_  ... So it was magic that healed Morgana and magic that can cure anything.

He doesn't know  _what_  kind of magic or spells that could do that; whenever he's asked such questions he's been given no clear answers. Gaius has always been so vague on magic and what its limits are. Telling him neither what it can and can't do. And he's not found anything in his magic book yet, and asking the dragon is useless. He can't do it himself, he's not strong enough …

"Does that bother you, Merlin?"

He shakes his head silently in reply. If magic is the answer ... then he'll let Edwin use it.

"Relax," Edwin says, entrancingly. The warlock clings to the word as if to a final comfort. There's a rustling noise and right before Merlin's eyes slides shut as if by an enchantment, he spots something small and black slipping from the man's open palm. "In just a moment, everything will be all right."


	17. Part 16: Shatter the Mirror [A Remedy to Cure All Ills, part four]

**Part 16:**

# Shatter the Mirror

**_[A Remedy to Cure All Ills, part four]_ **

* * *

A loud knocking breaks the silence of the chamber. Again, it sounds, more urgent; the rapping on the door short and brisk.

 _That's odd,_ Arthur reflects; it cannot be Merlin, for Merlin never knocks.

"Yes?" He looks up and blinks a bit surprised; it's his father's own manservant, who rarely leaves the King's side. Seldom has Arthur had contact with him. The Prince gives the man an inquiring gaze. "What is it?"

The King's manservant, an elderly man who usually stands quiet wearing a perfectly blank mask, now looks urgent; his face is marred by a frown. "It's the King, sire – he's ill!"

Arthur startles and the questions falls from his lips before he can compose himself, a knot of worry forming in his stomach. His father is hardy. It's not like him to catch ill. And if the manservant goes to him … it must be bad.

"How, when?"

"I do not know, sire; he was at perfect health this morning and during the day, but as I went to assist His Majesty this evening I found him abed, utterly pale! He will not wake!"

"Find Gaius," Arthur orders at once without thinking and stands, hastily putting aside the quill, a few droplets of ink spilling but he takes no heed to it now. "Bring him to my father's chambers immediately."

* * *

He doesn't knock. It is rare for him to do so; his father doesn't like unexpected visitors, especially not at this hour. But recalling the panic on the servant's face Arthur cannot bring himself to care right now and he enters the chamber firmly, the door making no sound as it opens.

"Father, may I enter?" Silence greets his words. Arthur frowns slightly. "… Father, are you there?"

Beyond the door, the room lies quiet. The curtains have been drawn and the gloom makes the stillness even more eerie.

No. No, it cannot be. "Father," Arthur presses, silently chanting _, Let it not be! Let it not be!_ as he approaches the bed; the older man lies on his side, face away. Tensing visibly the Prince comes nearer. He breathes, but his eyes are heavily lidded, and his hands utterly limp. He's paler than usual. There's no sign of fever. Just – stillness.

"No!" Arthur chokes – the servant was right. The stillness … It's just like Morgana's illness before; the image of her pale face flashes through his mind.  _No_!

"But, there's a cure," he mutters to himself, trying desperately to calm down and not let his feeling take control. He must remain calm, for his father's sake. "There's a cure."

_Edwin. I have to find Edwin!_

* * *

His body is so heavy. It won't  _move_.

He struggles against the invisible chains that suddenly seem to have wrapped around him. Trapped him. Edwin stands above him, calm and quiet and pleased. Just standing there, while he's so clearly struggling, not moving to help –  _why isn't he helping?_

 _Why can't I_ _**move** _ _?_

"You really are naïve, Merlin," Edwin smirks. "Truly, I thought my eyes deceived me … but no longer. You have magic. And you're freely  **giving it away**."

It _hurts_. A terrible sharp icy pain cutting through his bones. "No!" he wants to scream and tries to, but his voice is nothing but a weak croak and he cannot lift his arms, can't defend himself from the onslaught. Not his magic! It's his  _body_! Edwin said he'd  _cure_   _him_!

"No," he protests, again, "no."

Inside he tries to reach out and grasp at his magic but it's slipping like sand and the pain increases, a steady pounding burn in his blood. His muscles refuse to cooperate. It feels like someone's cutting open his spine and  _tearing_  it out.

Why isn't his magic working?!

The man's whole face is gleaming as if by pleasure.

"It's useless to fight, Merlin. Just relax. It'll be over in just a moment."

Tears well up in his eyes, hot and salty.  _No!_  His mouth opens, but there's no noise.  _I don't want this! Please, let me go! Let me go!_

"Hush now. When it's over, you'll be like anybody, normal and no longer a sorcerer. No more magic to taint your blood. You would no longer have that curse. Isn't that what you wanted, Merlin?"

 _No you don't understand_ , he cries at the man, not understanding why,  _why_  is Edwin doing this? How can he be so cold, just standing there while there's so much pain?  _Why_ —

"N-no," he gasps. "That's not it. That's not it. Please -"

"Oh?" Edwin arches an eyebrow at him. "Is it not the only thing then?"

An ice-cold fist breaks through his ribcage, settling around his heart, squeezing; Edwin glances down then, at the half-undone lacings of the servant's tunic. His eyes …

How could anyone have such cold, indifferent eyes?

Leisurely the man reaches out a hand, tugging at the string and a cry wrenches from Merlin's throat. No! No, it just can't be happening! This can't be happening! His whole body screams but not a sound manages to leave his throat -  _Stop! Stop!_  He tries moving away, struggling with the bonds, but he can't move and it's too late now because a startled expression comes to the scarred man's face. Merlin's eyelids burn, hot tears of humiliation gathering beneath them, threatening to spill.

He's seen – he  _knows_  -

" **Edwin**!"

The voice isn't his and Merlin's eyes snap open in shock. At the sudden noise – a slam, heavy footfall - Edwin snaps back, twisting his head. Merlin wishes he could see, but he can't move and the sounds reaching his ears are growing sluggish. As if they're toppling down a hill and crashing like water on rocks. As if somebody's pulling him away from the source relentlessly. The invisible chains around him tighten.

Edwin's hand disappears and the tunic falls back, and the man slips out of his sight.

"Edwin, you're needed in –"

The unknown speaker suddenly chokes, as if struggling to find air, and after a heartbeat of silence the voice returns burning, burning.

Then there's a cry, a sharp ringing noise - a sword being brandished. Edwin raises his voice. A spell, Merlin realizes suddenly, he's reciting some spell.

"You're—you're  **magic**!"

Shock makes the voice blue and faint.

"No, it cannot be," gasps the voice.

"Yes," the man says. Using that oddly calm voice. Indifferent. "Oh, do not look so surprised."

"What is a  _sorcerer_  doing in Camelot?"

Wait … that voice. Merlin recognizes it. Spitting the word  _sorcerer_  so heatedly, so full of hate … It is. It must be.

 _Arthur_!

Part of him rejoices at the realization; another part of him doesn't want to accept it -  _Please don't let it be please don't let it be_  – because he doesn't want Arthur to see him like this, this weak and fragile and spread out. What if Arthur finds out his secrets? What if Arthur realizes now? What then?

"Uther Pendragon stole my parents," Edwin spits the name as if trying to crack it against the stone floor. "Through his hatred, he robbed my childhood from me, my freedom and my joy. Nothing but his death shall console me."

The Prince chokes at the truth, which also Merlin has begun to understand. "Morgana's sickness – you caused it! And my father's illness as well!"

"Yes. You see, however I would like to see him burn or have his head roll upon the flagstones, red with blood as he killed so many of my kin, this is the easiest way. Quietly, you see, then I'd have slipped out before dawn, proud of my achievement. I'd even have let you live, little Prince, had you not interrupted me."

There's shuffling, nearing footsteps – a shout. A battle-cry, hoarse from Arthur's throat, and Merlin can picture in his mind how the man might look, sword in hand, eyes dark. Then, there's a shouted word of the Old Religion and the soaring of fire. A cry - a thud, echoing in the chamber, out of reach.

Then a moment of silence, creeping in the shadows. Fear leaps at Merlin's throat. What if Arthur wasn't ...?!

"Just stand still," Edwin says; Merlin can  _hear_  the smirk. "That way it'll be easier for me to kill you."

Merlin can breathe again.

_He's alive…!_

A growl thunders from the base of Arthur's throat. "What have you done to Merlin?" he snarls. _"What have you done to him?!"_

His voice is so ferocious, like a wild beast's; a dragon's battle-roar – Merlin has never heard it like that before. So instinctive and even protective. He's never spoken Merlin's name in such a manner before, and a small warmth forms in the pit of the warlock's belly: there's  _hope_.

But even if Arthur is armed with his sword and quick on his feet, he has no protection against magic. He needs to run damn it! But the stupid prat won't realize; he  _never_  backs down. If only Merlin could move…! His magic …  _he to reach his magic!_

Edwin laughs roughly. "A mere servant mightn't be so precious to you, little Prince, once you find out their secrets."

Merlin closes his eyes tight, assembling his concentration. If Arthur distracts the scarred man long enough, then he could find and grasp it. The magic binds around him, paralyzing him, is slipping ever so slightly, as Edwin is growing occupied with fighting the Prince. If he could just -

"Release him, bastard!" Arthur demands. "Release him and release my father from whatever spell you've put on them and you shall be given a fair trial, as much as I'd rather kill you now. Or I'll cut you down where you stand!"

 _Just_  -

"A mere sword couldn't harm me. I'd like to see you try, Princeling."

_\- almost, almost -_

Edwin begins to speak another spell. One of the wall adornments in the room, an axe attached to a wall beneath an old shield, breaks loose from its fastenings. It hovers for a moment.

There's a loud clang: a shattering noise, something splitting apart. Arthur cries out.

_There!_

Every piece of furniture in the room begin to clatter against the floor and the walls; the invisible bindings fall away and crash to the ground like glass, and suddenly Merlin can move again. His eyes flash gold. Not a moment to lose, the warlock rolls off the medicine table and onto his feet, dragging a whole set of instruments and knifes down in the process.

The noise is shrill and loud. His ears are ringing. Dark spots dance before his eyes. The wave of raw magic just unleashed must've drained him; he grasps the nearest wall for support, dizzy. Something wet and hot escapes from his left ear – Merlin blinks dazedly as he fumbles to catch it. Blood stains his palm and a tiny black beetle slips down. He stares down at it, blinking stupidly, but there's no time to ponder now.

In the commotion, Edwin's words shatter on his tongue and he loses his balance. The axe trembles in mid-air, starting to fall down.

Taking this to his advantage, the Prince launches forward. His sword, Merlin realizes now, is shattered: pieces of metal is scattered about, and the hilt is useless in the Prince's hand. So Arthur grabs the axe. The scarred man stares, wide-eyed at the nearing blade, at Arthur's cold furious face – another spell trembles on his fingertips.

"Arthur! Watch out!" Merlin cries on reflex.

Magic thrums against the walls.

That mere second of hesitation is all Arthur needs to finish his move. The scarred man falls down, blood splattering on the stone; Merlin turns his face away. The body makes a heavy wet sound as it hits the floor.

It remains unmoving.

Then, there's silence. The Prince's ragged breaths echo in the chamber. Wordlessly, he stares down at the body, as if making sure the man truly is dead. The weapon, tainted by death, remains in his hand. The stillness is eerie.

Merlin holds his breath, his stomach threatening to upturn itself.

The blood … all that  _blood_  …

Arthur turns to face him, slowly. His mouth opens to speak – Merlin instinctively takes a step back at the sight of that lethal burning fury, of the bloodied axe. Had he seen? Had he realized? Had he -

"You fool!" Arthur shouts. "You – you utter  **idiot**! What were you doing here?! Are you  _daft_?"

At the accusation, Merlin blinks at him confused.

…  _What?_

"I … Hey! That's unfair," Merlin manages to defend himself, albeit weakly, still staring at the Prince perplexed. Why isn't Arthur accusing him for using magic? Why's he calling him an idiot, not a traitor? Merlin's pretty sure he's a traitor and that if Arthur knew about that, the Prince wouldn't call him "daft" – no, Arthur would, armed with his sword, not hesitate. Why would he? He hates all magic, as he has been raised to do. Surely Arthur wouldn't call him "daft" just to arrest him. No, there'd be more pure hatred burning in his eyes and –

"I'm not daft! E-Edwin –" Saying the name, merely  _thinking_  it, makes him tremble. " – He said he could cure anything."

"Cure -? Wait, you're  _ill!_?"

Arthur's eyes widen. It would have been rather comical, if not for the cold and the axe and the blood – oh god,  _the_   _blood,_ splattered onto the stone and the man's clothes. "So you went to him and not to Gaius and let him put a spell on you?! You, you  **fool**!"

Merlin glares at him on instinct. "I hardly just  _let_  him! How were I supposed to stop -"

Sharply he bites his tongue. It's a lie, a blatant lie. Because he could've known. He could've used his own magic and not let Edwin take control of him like that; could've fought back earlier, before Edwin slithered that beetle inside …

A wide range of emotions flashes across Arthur's face in the blink of an eye, conflicting with one another; anger and relief and something else which Merlin cannot read.

"I didn't know he had magic," he says instead. "If I knew, I wouldn't have gone to him!"

_Lies, lies, lies._

"Your father ... you said the King has Morgana's illness," he says instead, suddenly wanting Arthur to look away from him – those burning eyes are becoming unnerving. "Gaius should -"

"He has been alerted already and is with him right now. That is why I came here, to find Edwin to assist him, since the illness is like Morgana's. But perhaps the spell died along the sorcerer," the Prince spits the last word with loathing, and Merlin averts his eyes. Sudden sharp shame wells in his chest.

If he weren't such a lying coward, this wouldn't have happened.

"Well, it hardly matters now. He is dead, and Gaius must find some other cure. I can't believe ... I can't believe Edwin caused all this from the beginning."

The Prince steps over the body – oh god, the  _body_ ; Arthur just killed a man ruthlessly and wordlessly right before his eyes. And while Merlin has seen a man being killed by a sword before, as the Prince killed Valiant in the tournament, he has never seen it this close or brutally, or seen the Prince so taciturn before, his hand gripping the hilt of the weapon harshly, knuckles white. His eyes …

For a moment Arthur's eyes were entirely  _unfamiliar_.

It's frightening to know Arthur can do that.

He sounds so oddly collected, albeit there's a sharp edge to his tone. Worry? Why's Arthur worried? Arthur is many things, but not  _worried_  about a  _servant_. It's confusing and a thousand other things, and Merlin staggers against the wall, overwhelmed by the thrumming of his heart and the loud rushing sound past his ears and the blood, the  _blood_.

"Merlin … your ear is bleeding. We must get you to Gaius. Come on." The Prince grabs his arm using his left hand, the one that hadn't wielded the axe. The grip is warm and steadying and somewhat comforting.

Arthur drops the axe onto the floor on the way out. Merlin dares not glance over his shoulder as the door shuts.

* * *

The guard in the next corridor stops short at the sight of them, fisting his spear tightly in shock.

"Sire? What's happened?" the man asks, wide eyes taking in the Prince's ruffled clothes and the traces of blood, and the slightly slumped servant following the Prince like in a daze. "Sire?"

"Alert the guard. Edwin has betrayed us: his body is in the chambers assigned for him. And send for sir Leon and sir Bedivere! Tell them to go to my fa—no, to the council chambers. The council chambers, now at once," Arthur orders rapidly, and a thousand questions must rest of the guard's tongue, but the Prince's look silences him. "I shall meet with them there shortly. Has Gaius passed this way?"

"Yes sire," the guard replies distractedly. "Not long ago; he went toward the west wing of the castle."

Arthur nods: that is where his father's rooms lie. "Good. Now hurry!"

The guard obediently scurries away and Arthur tugs on the servant's arm, bringing him back to awareness.

"Come, Merlin," the Prince mutters. "Merlin! Don't just stand there."

Unable to speak, Merlin just nods jerkily and follows, feet moving mechanically beneath him, the stone-floor cold.

* * *

Quickly Gaius rises to his feet from sitting at the King's bedside as the door slams open. The old man freezes at the sight of them: Arthur's dark and dangerous expression, his sword yet unsheathed, and Merlin's pale face, gaunt knuckles white.

"What's happened?" the old man exclaims, startled. "Sire? Merlin? Your ear…"

"I found him at Edwin's rooms. Gaius, he was a deceiver – he used magic all along," the Prince says, tone cold. "You were right to doubt him."

"What happened?"

"I'm not sure. When I went to fetch Edwin, Merlin was there – he was just lying there all still -" The Prince draws a sharp breath at the memory despite silently promising himself not to lose control.

"It hurt," Merlin gasps suddenly. "It hurt so much and … and I couldn't move." His uncle sends him a concerned look, laying a steadying gnarled hand on his back.

The Prince's frown deepens. "When I arrived, Edwin attempted to use magic to kill me. However one of his spells must've gone wrong, for the very ground seemed to tremble for a moment. I couldn't wait for reinforcements or try to subdue him and let him face trial, for I knew he'd fight until death. There was no other choice."

"So he is dead then?" Gaius asks gravely. For some reason Merlin cannot entirely understand, there's  _relief_ in his eyes.

Arthur nods. "Yes. I've alerted the guard as well; they are to escort the body away. I'll need to speak with my men and assemble the council. We mustn't let the public find out like this about Edwin's death: it'd only cause panic. Leon and Bedivere are to meet me in the council chambers shortly."

Gaius nods. The physician casts yet another worried glance at his nephew, grabbing the young shoulders. Merlin tries to smile, to tell him it's all right, that it's fine, that everything's all right now, but he's exhausted and hurting and there's an inexplicable grief clawing at his insides, sharp and unforgiving.

It's not merely the shock – it's the loss of the hope which Edwin first had sparked, that candle which Gaius had advised him against lighting. If not for Arthur he'd have lost his magic, and for that he's grateful, but …

But Edwin's words, his promises, his cure. His  _cure_. If not for his magic, Edwin mightn't have … have done what he did. Tried to do. If not for his magic, Edwin might have made his body normal.

 _Anything_.  _ **Anything**_  …

Trying to convey this to Gaius with one look and no word is not possible, and the weak smile fades, no sound managing to leave his throat. Now the shock is starting to settle, it is giving away for a strong wave of anguish, and he has an urge to start weeping. But he can't. He can't because he can't deal with Gaius or anyone else asking questions now. He doesn't want to be pitied either, he just wants to be held for a while and be given a chance to forget all this happened.

Gaius leads him to a chair to sit. Meanwhile, Arthur walks up to his father, feeling the man's brow.

"Gaius, what's wrong with him? Can you heal him?"

"His symptoms are exactly like Morgana's were: fever, paralysis ... Given we can't know Edwin's cure now, I do not know what to do." The physician looks pained.

A string of foul words leave the Prince's mouth – he starts pacing, looking ready to face down an army unarmed and single-handed. "There must be something, Gaius!"

Merlin watches the two with a distant gaze, yet processing all that's happened in the last hour. But through the haze, the thought strikes him:

_The beetle._

"Gaius," Merlin gasps. "Gaius, look!" He holds out his hand, unknotting it, and yet resting at the centre of the palm, stained with red, is a small black creature. It's still as death.

Gaius and Arthur both see this, and the old man kneels before him, eyes wide. "Merlin, how did it get there?"

"My ear. When Edwin …" He chokes on the memory. "He put it there. It hurt, and then, when Arthur came into the room, when Edwin tried to – when he tried using magic, I could suddenly move, and then there was blood running from my ear and the beetle fell into my hand."

The Prince blanches. "When Morgana was cured…there was blood in her ear too," he murmurs quietly, realizing that which Gaius must have too, and the old man might have suspected this for some time now. He stares at the servant, horrified at the realization: "He tried to give you the illness!"

Another string of foul words that Merlin hasn't even heard Arthur say before is uttered, Arthur grabbing the back of the nearest chair, leaning against it, knuckles white.

"Mayhap the beetle was cause of the illness itself. How he put the beetle first in Morgana's ear I don't know, but he might have removed it, caused her to wake up. And when the beetle fell from you ear, Merlin, you suddenly had control of your body again," Gaius says and looks up at Arthur. "Now you tell me he did have magic, it makes sense. He could have used some spell to hide the beetle and make it obey his command."

"How do we stop it? There's a beetle inside my father's  _head!_ We must get it out!"

The frantic, almost mad tone of the Prince makes Gaius wince.

"Sire, you must calm down," the old man says gently, soothingly. "You must meet with sir Leon and sir Bedivere in the council chambers, remember? You cannot go to them in this state."

"You're right," Arthur mutters, closing his eyes briefly and trying to fight the tantrum in his heart. "I just. Gaius, you  _must_  find a way. Father must be cured!"

 _If he isn't, if he isn't,_  are the underlying words _; if he_ _ **dies**_ _…_

"I swear I shall do all in my power to cure him. We know the cause of the illness now; it's given us a head-start. Now go, sire. Assembly the council and try to keep them calm for now."

_Focus. Focus._

Arthur opens his eyes again and sends a final despairing look at his father's unmoving body, and then, against the power of his will, his gaze travel to the pallet beside the cabinet where Merlin is sitting still huddled up in a position making him look quite fragile, and Arthur's throat tightens.

The servant, noticing his stare, looks up. Without a word, he nods. It's almost as if he's saying,  _'Go - things'll get sorted, don't worry' -_ and amidst all doubt and fear, it gives Arthur hope.

"Please do anything you can to save him, Gaius," the Prince says and the old man nods. "I shall." Then the door closes behind the Prince, the clicking of his footsteps growing fainter and fainter.

Merlin stares at the still body of the King in despair. Before, when Morgana fell ill, Gaius was completely unable to help. Now, Edwin is dead. There's no one that can help. Nothing to do. What if the King dies? Arthur will be heartbroken and mad. He'll … Merlin doesn't want to think of it, and shudders.

A gnarled hand settles on his shoulder, startling him. "Gaius," he murmurs. "What are we going to  _do_?"

"There is a way," the old man responds and Merlin stiffens, realizing.

"Surely...we can't! Gaius, if the King finds out...!" He sends his uncle a desperate glance.

"There are times when it is  _necessary_."

He can't believe it. Gaius, who always tells him to be careful, is asking him to perform magic on the King himself! Even after knowing that magic was the reason for the ill itself! Overwhelmed by his guardian's faith and confidence in him, Merlin nearly loses his breath, and he stands frozen like confused. What is he to do? Gaius so earnestly  _trusts_  him to fix this. But how? He has no words – no spell – no path. And oh god, it is the very King of Camelot and Gaius wants him to do  _magic_  on the man…!

"I don't know  _how_ ," he whispers. Unwillingly he glances at the shut door. What if the guards hear? What if Arthur returns, right when his magic is boiling?

Merlin isn't sure if he dares.

" _Think_ , Merlin. The beetle fell from your ear. There must be a reason for that. A reason provoked by you-"

Merlin's brow furrows in concentration as he tries remembering the details. His pulse speeds up, his chest twinges: he can't get the images out of his head, the blood and Arthur's raging eyes, and it's difficult to concentrate.

"I … I didn't use any spell. Just reacted. It hurt and I couldn't move, and I fought back, trying to get free. Then – when I could move, my ear bled."

"Then you must do the same now," Gaius concludes. "Fight back." His voice is very calm and gentle. He guides him to sit on the bedside, facing the King. The old man's eyelids are heavy and his skin growing pale. In a way, he reminds Merlin of a ghost, a shadow of something past. He's never even been this close to the King, the man who beheads all magical beings, before – what if he wakes up? What will Uther do when finding him sitting there right before him, hands filled with magic and eyes glowing gold?

His gaze flickers, from the King's face to his hands. Taking a deep breath, he tries stifling his thundering heartbeat. He has to try. Has to try, for Arthur's sake.

This single thought in mind, he closes his eyes and reaches out. His magic is there – safe and warm as before, before … before  _it_  happened; it wraps securely around him and instead of forcing it with words and will, he lets it guide him.

The moments of silence following, even Gaius seems to hold his breath, and all is utterly still. The candle lights freeze, no longer flickering uncertainly on the bedside and outside it is completely dark. For a moment it is as if time has stopped.

Then, he finds it. A piece of magic, right before him. It is dark and tainted. And he can feel it so strongly now perhaps because Edwin is gone and can no longer shield it. Swiftly, Merlin's magic strikes, and he gasps staggeringly once the ordeal is over. His eyes open. There in his palm lies a tiny black beetle.

"You did it. You did it! Merlin, oh Merlin. I am so proud of you!"

Gaius' embrace is sudden and fierce, and Merlin relishes in the support. He feels suddenly drained. Then the physician takes the beetle from his hand and wraps it in a small piece of cloth.

"I'm tired," he mutters. His head hurts, and his stomach is still tying itself in knots. Arthur…how is he doing? His eyes had been so wild, so filled with concern, and the Prince can be so rash. Merlin doesn't know anything about politics or what one should do when one's King falls ill, but this is Arthur's father also, and the Prince might be feeling alone. A sudden urge grabs him to go down the hall, toward the council chambers unbidden and see if Arthur is any calmer now than half an hour ago. The feeling fights with his tiredness for a moment.

"Go home and rest," Gaius advises, unaware of his inner battle.

Merlin turns and walks out of the door, not quite feeling the ground move beneath his feet; for a moment, by the crossroad in the corridor, he pauses. Left – home, to his bed – or right – to the council chambers, to Arthur?

Torn, he stares at the two stone arches. As he stands there, a passing by guard finds him and asks if everything all right, wondering what a servant is doing standing idly in a corridor past nightfall. He struggles to come up with a decent reply, murmuring something about going home; the guard nods, evidently not caring much. The guard, just like the majority of Camelot, has not yet heard of the King's illness or Edwin's death; he knows nothing of the uproar threatening to spill from Arthur's lips.

He makes up his mind then, and turns right. The prat may deny it for ever and ever, but he needs someone to just be there sometimes and tell him he's not alone.


	18. Part 17: Chains [The Gates of Avalon, part one]

**Part 17:**

# Chains

**_[The Gates of Avalon, part one]_ **

* * *

“… Do not alert them yet. The people would only panic.”

“But, sire…” The Knight’s voice thickens then goes quiet, as the wide doors at the end of the chambers open hesitantly with a creaking noise. Then sir Leon nods sharply. “Yes, sire. We’ll see to it right away.”

As the Prince dismisses the two loyal men, Merlin walks into the room on surprisingly silent feet. At the sight of the servant, Arthur raises an eyebrow.

“Merlin, what are you doing here? You shouldn’t be up and about!”

“I’m fine,” Merlin says. "I just wanted –”

Wanted what? He halts suddenly, unsure of what to say. To check on you? To see if you’re all right? He doesn’t know what he wants to do. He’d not planned on saying anything in particular, just…be there and let Arthur rant and listen to him and, maybe, Arthur would’ve been less tense and worried if there was someone with him.

Instead he says, “Gaius is curing your father.”

“He’s found a way?”

“Yes.”

The Prince shudders and for a moment Merlin is scared that he’s hiding some wound or is getting ill himself, but then he realizes that Arthur is releasing a deep breath and shivering with relief. His father will live. The King will live.

( _Merlin will live,_ a tiny voice reminds the Prince at the back of his mind; _Edwin is gone. He won’t hurt anyone again. He won’t take any more lives.)_

“I’m glad.”

Merlin still stands there, on the threshold, looking at the Prince steadily.

“You should go and rest, Merlin.”

“What about you? You need to sleep too. You look exhausted.”

“There are some things I need to do first. The court won’t run itself, and I fear rumours will already be spreading about my father’s illness. Someone must manage the chaos.”

“But you don’t have to do it alone.”

Arthur looks at him with sharp blue eyes and something inside Merlin is set aflame under the scrutiny.

“I’m a Prince, Merlin,” Arthur says then, slowly, as if explaining a foreign concept to a child; “Princes –”

“- not all of them are alone,” Merlin cuts across then bites his tongue. Where did that come from? He hadn’t meant the words to sound like that. But now they’ve been uttered and cannot be retreated. So he squares his shoulders and readies himself for some sharp comeback, a barked order to get out, or for the Prince to roll his eyes and call him and idiot again.

Instead, Arthur merely looks oddly thoughtful.

“Maybe,” he admits at length. Nothing more is mentioned on the matter, but the Prince cannot forget, the image burned to his eyelids: his father, cold and unmoving, and Merlin, frozen in place, Edwin standing above him chanting, Arthur’s guts churning, _wrong wrong wrong magic dangerous evil._

“It’s late, Merlin. Go home and rest.”

He’ll sleep later, once he’s seen his father. Made sure that he’ll live, as Merlin will live, and everything will be all right again.

* * *

For the next following weeks, the King is on the mend, healing quickly. Gaius’ cures (and Merlin’s magic, slipped into the potions in the night, nobody looking) are doing wonders for him. As the King rarely shows his face outside the castle anyway, many citizens are being kept in the dark; Arthur covers for him well, but Merlin doesn’t miss the newly acquired dark rings beneath his eyes. Silently he weights the risks of magically sending the Prince to sleep for a while – just a full night, so that he can forget himself in dreams and stop worrying.

As the King recovers so does Arthur, albeit those who don’t know it never knew he too fell ill. Seeing his father still and pale has shaken Arthur to the core, but he wears the façade dangerously well.

(A bit like himself, Merlin thinks. All smoke and mirrors and ghosts.)

* * *

“You’re late. Again.”

“Sorry, sire,” Merlin says cheerfully and begins setting out the dishes on the table.

“Honestly,” the Prince sighs and rises from the bed. He wears no shirt, and his feet are bare despite the stone floor. “You never seem to learn, _Mer_ lin.” As the man takes seat and digs into breakfast, Merlin walks over to the wardrobe to pick out the Prince’s clothes for the day.

“So what are you planning to do today, sire?” The servant gestures at the open wardrobe, even if the Prince can’t see; he still marvels at the amount of shoes and boots the Prince owns. Seemingly one pair for each day and every weather: while Merlin has owned his single pair for three years now. “Any council meetings?”

“I was thinking about hunting.”

Of all the horrors!

Even if he’s not followed the Prince on any hunts yet, he remembers trekking in the forests with Will for days and barely finding any deer. And once they eventually found any them Merlin would ( _accidentally!)_ scare them off by tripping on a root or something. Will had been … rather angry then, so Merlin had, as a peace offer, killed two wild rabbits with magic even if he didn’t like doing it, so that they wouldn’t have to return empty-handed. Despite that, Will had deemed him a useless hunter and not let him come with him again after that. Perhaps it was also for the best.

But there’s a sharp difference between Will hunting and Arthur hunting: in Ealdor it’s not usual for the men and older sons to go hunting, especially during more meager seasons when the harvest wasn’t enough to feed everyone. It’s simply necessary to keep everyone’s stomachs full.

Arthur and the rest of the noblemen, on the other hand, are guaranteed to be served the best food to be found in Camelot, in large quantities, may it be so the lower town starves: they have no _need_ to hunt. They do it for sport, and that’s simply something Merlin cannot approve of. And it’ll probably take days and he’ll have to sleep on a mossy damp forest floor, and stalk through the woods for hours and hours maybe not to even _sight_ a deer...

“You sure, sire?” Merlin asks hopefully wishing for the Prince to change his mind, but he’s sent a look, as if the Prince’s saying _Yes, I am sure: are you sure you aren’t an idiot?_

“Right,” he mutters. “So, hunting. Will any of the knights come with you?”

“Not today actually, I’m not in the mood for it. You’ll come with me of course.”

“Must I? Seriously, I’ve hunted before and I’m not good at it, you’d be much better off with one of your men. Or one of the other servants! Look, I’ll just scare away all the prey …”

“It’s a risk I’ve got to take then.”

Merlin barely suppresses a sigh. There’ll be no talking out of this apparently.

* * *

Somewhat to Merlin’s surprise, before they leave, he’s ordered to fetched Beowulf (the dog which in reality is not a true canine or a living creature to start with; not that Merlin’s going to mention that to Arthur), who now apparently is to be _properly_ trained as a royal hunting dog by none other than the Prince himself. Whereas the dog’s appearance is a couple of years old, Beowulf barks eagerly and keeps stroking himself against the warlock’s legs like a playful newborn pup, tangling himself in them causing Merlin to fall over ever so often. He’s not that much of a tracker. He simply does not seem to know how to.

This frustrates Arthur some, but Merlin can’t explain the truth, of course, not even a fraction of it for that would lead to questions he cannot answer.

Four odd hours and one single meager rabbit later Merlin happens to ram into the Prince’s back, purely on accident, as Arthur appears to have an annoying habit of stopping all of a sudden every ten meters without any warning.

 “ _Mer_ lin!” Arthur cries exasperatedly, glaring at him. Just in the clearing ahead there’s a rustle and a flicker of motion and the warlock glances at the now empty spot; he thinks that might be a rabbit that just ran away, disappearing in the dark undergrowth. A wise choice, in Merlin’s opinion.

“See, I told you,” the servant says grumpily. “It was a bad idea. Seriously, can we turn back now? My feet are all sore and we’re not going to catch anything anyway.” He stares up at the sky trying to determine the time, calculating how many miserable hours they’ve been out here walking in circles and following ghosts.

“Not with you bumbling about like that, no! Hunting requires speed, stealth and an agile mind and clearly you possess _none_ of those qualities. For once you are right about something – even if the very idea is outright laughable, given you are such an _idiot_. I should’ve taken sir Leon and left you in Camelot to scrub the floors—”

Merlin wrinkles his nose displeasedly; there’s something … something off. Like from far-away he can hear a sound, almost like steel being brandished, and shuffling. The leaves around them rustle faintly in the wind but that’s not it.

There are _voices_.

“What’s that noise?”

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur says, irritably, “don’t interrupt me. You’d better not-”

A woman’s scream cuts through the woods. Abruptly the Prince freezes up. Then, after he’s quickly located the direction of the sound, he sprints off; Merlin abandons the dead rabbit and sprints after him, the dog on his heels. _What’s that? Are bandits attacking? Or some wild creature?_

The forest blurs about him, browns and greens a mess and he stumbles over a dry root sticking out from the soft earth. He manages to catch his fall with both hands, groaning at the impact – that’s going to leave bruises. But, he heaves himself up, glancing around desperately to catch sight of the quickly disappearing Prince. There’s a flash of red jacket in-between the branches, and Merlin hurries after, tracing Arthur’s steps with Beowulf close on his heels.

When entering the clearing, Merlin stops short.

There’s a woman, and an elderly man, dressed in foreign fineries. The woman – or girl, rather – has long dark hair with pearls woven into the thin braids. The old man bears a blue robe and both of them carry some kind of wooden walking staff. One of the bandits must’ve taken their packs, for they carry none, but some scattered items – spare clothes (now ripped and dirty), a simple knife, a few coins glittering in the sun, a gnarled wooden staff with an ornate blue stone buried in the handle – lay spread around the clearing haphazardly.

A shadow is fleeing fast between the trees: a bandit that just barely managed to escape. The unknown man’s footsteps echo dry and loud in the woods, but the Prince does not hinder him from running away: he’s already too far off and Arthur has run out of bolts. Beowulf barks loud and clear after him, before the figure is completely out of sight with a terrified shout.

There’s blood too, and two bodies lie unmoving on the bed of dry leaves. One of the bandits is slumped forward, the body heavy, a crossbow bolt protruding from his back. The other’s throat is open and Merlin sharply looks away, toward an untouched patch of the ground, breathing a bit sharper.

Ahead of him, Arthur stands tall, slightly winded but otherwise remaining impassive. His unsheathed sword rests in his hand, ready and open, and a crossbow lies at his feet, but that is the only evidence of any battle occuring. It’s almost like he’s not just been in a fight. Almost like he’s not just killed those men.

 _Killed_.

A tight knot wrenching in his belly, Merlin swallows hard. Carefully he steps forward, trying so hard not to look at the bodies and instead focus on Arthur and the two strangers he’s apparently rescued.

For a brief second, unable not to, he still sees the bodies, the image burned to his eyelids. Unmoving and cold and covered with blood. And he remembers Edwin, leaning over him, and the screams and Arthur’s sword clashing down and Arthur’s burning gaze, _“What have you done to him?!” -_ and for that second, he can’t breathe.

Then, the moment passes, and the knot, while not untying itself completely, relaxes some. Merlin’s shoulder slump a little. He approaches the Prince, who still hasn’t spoken.

The girl is weeping, frantically leaning against Prince Arthur as he helps her to her feet; he’s sheathed his sword without cleaning it. Stains of red darken his jacket and his face is shadowed, his eyes gleaming from the recent battle.

The elderly man shakily gets to his feet; for the first time Merlin gets to look at him properly, and he barely hides a gasp. The man practically **reeks** of magic. An aura stronger than anything he’s ever seen before is wrapped around him, almost as if he’s wearing the magic like a piece of cloth. It’s not like in the case of Nimueh who, disguised as a servant girl, managed to hide her magic in plain sight; this man seems to have difficulty suppressing his own magic from showing.

 _How…What’s he doing here?!_ flashes through Merlin’s mind. _What’s a man with magic doing so close to Camelot?_

The Prince, wholly unaware, steps up to the pair and helps the woman to her feet. “Are you all right, my Lady?” he asks gently; a sharp contrast to the cold aggressiveness just a moment ago.

“I – I will be,” she answers shakily. Her voice is very soft, smooth, a bit like honey even while it’s trembling. “Thanks to you, my Lord.”

There’s a slight stiffness to Arthur’s shoulders. Merlin frowns. Is he reacting to being called a lord? But that is nothing strange. While not wearing armour or crown, his clothing is far too fine for that of a peasant and he has the bearing of a knight – and he fights like one. It’s a bit odd, for Arthur to react like that. The girl may not yet know that he’s actually the Prince but he can’t possibly hide the fact that he’s a knight.

“Yes. Thank you, thank you, my Lord,” says the old man. “My daughter and I shall forever be in your debt.”

“This is a dangerous road for unarmed travelers,” Arthur remarks. “May I inquire as to where you are headed?”

“We are headed for Camelot, sire.”

Camelot. It can’t be…But it must be some coincidence. Are they druids, maybe? But why are they headed for Camelot when the old man so clearly possesses magic? That’s suicidal! Merlin can’t get his head around all these questions.

There’s something – he can’t pinpoint what exactly, but something about all this is unsettling.

He wants to warn them, suddenly. Tell them to go back wherever they came from. Going to Camelot when you possess magic is madness. The thought, however brief, of seeing them burned, lashes to the forefront of Merlin’s mind and wrenches his insides.

_Go back, please, say that you’re just lost and need to go –_

They don’t.

“Camelot? Then we shall escort you there, for that is also our heading,” Arthur says.

Merlin’s words slip out before he can stop them – a reflex, perhaps, as he hopes to buy the two strangers some time to escape before they actually come with them to Camelot, toward the one place they should most avoid, if they are sorcerers.

“But you haven’t finished hunting,” he blurts, and the Prince gives him a sharp, slightly irritated look. “Sire.” An afterthought.

The man and the girl seem to see him for the first time, and the latter barely gives him a fleeting glance; overlooking him as he clearly is a servant. The old man however lingers, looking thoughtful. Merlin returns the silent stare strongly, but his pulse staggers a little. Is the man able to sense his magic in the same way that Merlin can sense his? _Please don’t notice, please don’t notice…!_

Arthur, oblivious to all of this, makes an impatient noise at the back of his throat. “Never mind that, Merlin,” he says. “Gather my things. We’re going back to the city now. We must alert the guard of this incident. There may be more bandits out there.”

“Right away, sire.”

Arthur is already walking away, supporting the still-trembling girl gentlemanly – he has taken off his gloves - with the old man following closely, leaning on the staff which he’s retrieved from the ground. Something stings in Merlin’s chest as he watches the Prince walk away without glancing back, and he sighs then; it doesn’t matter, not now. He needs to find the equipment which he so carelessly had tossed aside. He starts walking back, retracing their earlier steps, taking care in avoiding the bodies - but Beowulf halts momentarily to sniff at them. Merlin calls the dog back with an unusually strained tone.

 _Are they just going to be left here?_ fleets through his mind, the thought sharp. _Will they just lie here to rot in the rain?_ – but he tries not thinking about it. The dog dances back to his side, barking happily.

He wonders if the Prince will care whether he leaves the dead rabbit half-hidden in the moss.

* * *

The King sits on his throne draped in heavy fabrics of black and red, arms still on the armrests in an image of calm. His tone is difficult to determine. “Bandits? This close to the border?”

“They were not many, sire,” Arthur says nodding his head slightly. “But I would suggest the guard to be extra alert. There may be stragglers, and we cannot let them terrorize our people.”

“Very well.”

* * *

He stops at the sight of Lady Morgana, now alone and not followed by the ever-loyal Gwen; the Lady stands beneath one of the wide white arches, half-hidden by shadows. She doesn’t appear to breathe, shock written on her face.

“My Lady?” Merlin asks carefully, glancing back briefly but Arthur doesn’t call for him to follow, thankfully, so he walks up to the Lady. He has an urge to lay a hand on her shoulder, for comfort, but they’re strangers and Lady and servant, so he knows he can’t. “Are you feeling all right?”

Merlin wonders if he should drop all things and run for Gaius. If the Lady is ill he has no idea what to do, he’s not a physician. “Milady?” he tries again, when she remains frozen on the step, staring at something over his shoulder.

The Lady is pale and wide-eyed, and her small fists so tight that Merlin fears she’ll hurt herself and draw blood.

“That girl,” she whispers. She’s staring at the large stairs, up which the guests have disappeared led by the Prince toward the west wing where they will be housed during their stay, like nobles. “Who is she?”

“She’s, umm… Sophia Tír-Mòr. Ar—the Prince rescued her and her father from some raiders in the woods.” _Bloods on the forest floor; an arrow in the back; the woman screaming._ He staggers at the memory, but his concern is caught by Lady Morgana’s gaze flickering from the spot on the stairs onto him. It’s not quite steady. “My Lady? Are you feeling unwell? I can fetch Gaius --”

“She’s dangerous. I know it. She shouldn’t be here,” Morgana says suddenly and Merlin silences.

_Why is she saying this…?_

Then, he wonders, a dangerous thought – can she somehow sense magic? She’s not a magic user; that is for sure. But maybe…No, that’s impossible. She’s the King’s ward. He would never have allowed it.

No. She simply must have had some premonitions, a bad feeling. ( _A dream_ , a voice whispers at the back of Merlin’s mind _, she’s had a nightmare_.)

Uncertain of what to do or say, Merlin shifts from one foot to the other. The Lady is upset, but what can he do? How can he reassure her when he doesn’t know the danger himself, when he cannot spill his secrets and he’s just a servant?

He despises this feeling of uselessness.

“You’re awfully pale, my Lady. Maybe I’d better fetch Gaius…”

“No. No, I’m all right,” she says then, abruptly stepping back even if there’s this slight tremble to her voice. “Do not concern yourself, Merlin.” Then she turns, gathering up her swiveling skirts and quickly walks back the way she came, disappearing into the shadows of the castle.

* * *

“There’s something…something about them,” Merlin murmurs to his mentor, who gives him a concerned glance.

“How do you mean?”

“I can’t explain. But,” he lowers his voice then. The door is locked and shutters closed, but every time they speak of things like this they whisper and murmur like thieves in the dark. “When in the woods, when I saw that old man...I felt something. I think he has magic.” Well, in truth he does not even think. He _knows_. But Gaius always speaks of caution, of approaching slowly, and one cannot accuse anyone of being a magic-user lightly.

“Magic? You’re certain?”

“Pretty certain.”

Edwin had masked his magic with so many layers of presence and sly skill that Merlin hadn’t noticed until it was too late, too late (he pushes away the memory forcefully) – just as Nimueh had when disguised as the serving girl - but this man, albeit apparently old and thus having had much time to learn, gleams of magic like a beacon. Light or dark, Merlin can’t tell yet, but he could sense it a mile away. It’s strange, it’s almost like the man is more magic than man, like he’s not really meant to be here, in Camelot, walking the streets among both peasants and nobles. He and his daughter are something entirely different.

“Hmm.” Gaius stirs the pot over the fire with slow, deliberate movements. The smell of its contents is questionable, but Merlin is hungry and cares little. “If that’s the case, I wonder what his purpose is in Camelot. Do you think he’s a druid?”

“I…I’m not sure. He could be.”

“If so, he is taking a lot of risks, coming here, especially when taking along his daughter. If the King finds out –“

“He won’t,” Merlin says quickly. They may be strangers, those people, but they’re magic, and he can’t let the King burn them just because of who they are.

His mentor looks suddenly very old and weary. “You must realize, Merlin, few sorcerers ever come to Camelot anymore without ulterior motives.”

Merlin bites his lip. He doesn’t want to think that yet. It’s too early to tell. Their story could simply be the truth: they may just be travelers from afar, seeking shelter, and the bandits attacking had been nothing but coincidence. A foul one. Still. If the old man possesses magic, why hadn’t he just defeated those bandits himself?

 _Maybe_ , he reasons, _if he’s a druid, he’s peaceful and doesn’t want to fight. Maybe I could convince him and his daughter to leave._

“Now,” Gaius says then interrupting his thoughts. He sets down the pot on the table, the heady warmth soothing. “It’s time for you to eat and they you must be off to bed. It’s already late and you must be up early tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Merlin sighs and digs into the stew with a grumble, adding in a quite miserable tone, “I’m sure Arthur’s annoyed the hunt got cut off and wants to go hunting again first thing in the morning.”

* * *

“It’s a beautiful day.”

The Prince’s tone is unusually jolly. Especially for this early in the morning. Merlin hums as he gathers his master’s clothes for the day, pausing – how formal does he need to look today?

“Yeah, very beautiful.”

He’s not sure how much enthusiasm actually went into the words. It seems not to matter, for Arthur doesn’t react, continuing to lean against the window frame, staring out wide-eyed. Merlin clears his throat to catch his attention. “Do you have any council meetings today, sire?”

“None that I am to attend, no,” says the prince, finally turning from the window where he’s stood gazing down at the plaza for the last ten minutes, seemingly without goal.

“All right. Wait,” Merlin halts, realizing, “‘none that you’re going to attend’?”

That sounds awfully much like he’s going to skip them. Deliberately. _Again_. He’s been doing that a lot recently, and it doesn’t reflect well on the Prince. Anyway, Merlin can’t really understand why he doesn’t like those meetings that much. Sure, it’s probably quite boring, but it’s a lot more strenuous to scrub floors or train the Knights. “Sire, I don’t think that’s a very good idea—”

“Of course it’s a good idea! I have much more important things to attend to. I need you to run down to our guests’ quarters. Tell Lady Sophia I would like to meet with her.”

Merlin looks at him a bit confused. There’s something up with the Prince’s voice. Something that shouldn’t be there. “Sire?”

“Don’t just stand there!” the Prince barks impatiently, the glazed look in his eyes fading into their usual sharpness, and he forcefully grabs the shirt that rests lax in the servant’s hands. “Find me my boots.”

Swallowing back a sigh, Merlin does as bid, scrambling to find the items in question.

Something’s wrong. He’s certain. Maybe Arthur’s ill …

* * *

Then Lady Morgana runs into the room, look haunted, just like that day when standing near the stairs and Merlin sharply recalls her words, quiet but frantic; _She shouldn’t be here. She’s dangerous. I know it._

“My Lady?” Gaius asks, but she cuts him off, gasping.

“It’s Arthur!” she cries. “He’s in danger.” Her sharp dark eyes flicker over to Merlin and catch his gaze, and for a second, he understands, he understands it all even if his mentor refuses to. “I had a dream. Sophia will kill Arthur –”

Merlin’s blood turns cold with fear.

“Milady, are you certain you are not overreacting?” Gaius says, softly, diplomatically. But it’s no use. Merlin is certain that she’s not lying, and the realization is like a spear to the gut. “It was only a dream—”

_Arthur’s in danger._

“No, it’s not just a dream. You must believe me!”

“I believe you,” Merlin says at once.

The old physician looks at him despairingly. There’s fear, too; fear for his nephew, for his foolhardiness, and for the Lady and her dreams (or are they just dreams?) and their conviction. Accusations like these are never light and always dangerous. They cannot just come yelling at the King that his son is in danger from a nobleman’s daughter, may their nobility be true or not, even if the Lady herself does so. She may be his ward, but she would base her accusations on dreams, on fidgets of the mind, illusions – it’s far too close to magic.

“ _Please_ ,” the Lady says. “We must stop her.”

“I’ll help. Just tell me how.”

“Merlin—” Gaius says then, stepping in between the two. “ _No_. It’s too dangerous.”

“I can’t let Arthur die!”

His voice strangles, lungs squeezing together even as he utters the words. Can’t. Can’t. Arthur.

“I saw a forest, and a lake. Arthur was pushed into the water – sinking…and that woman was standing over him,” Lady Morgana retells shakily. “That’s what I saw.”

_A lake._

Merlin jerks into action, heading for the door. He doesn’t let himself glance over his shoulder, to meet his mentor’s cries for him to stop – there is no time. He must find Arthur before it’s too late.

A servant rushing through the corridors is not unusual and he isn’t stopped; he takes every shortcut he can, crisscrossing through the crowds all until he reaches the right wing of the castle. He dashes past the guards and other servants without word, heart pounding with each step. Within minutes, he stands before the Prince’s chambers and without hesitation he slams open the doors, rushing inside.

The Prince is standing near the fire-place, dressed in full armour, fiddling with an armguard. At the sudden noise, the blonde man flinches and he frowns at the servant, gaze oddly dark.

“What’s this about, Merlin?” he demands. “I’ve dismissed you.”

His voice isn’t…there’s something about it. Something Merlin doesn’t like. And his cold eyes. Arthur has glared at him before, but not like this, with this indifference as if he was just any other servant and they’ve never met before. He’s not entirely sure he’s seen Arthur glare at anyone like this and to be the subject of his gaze is disconcerting.

And why is he wearing full armour, as if he is to leave the castle?

“I –” The warlock is breathless. “I heard – Sophia –“

_She’s going to kill you. She’s enchanted you. She’s got magic and she’s going to sacrifice you._

“I’ve dismissed you,” Arthur says, again, as if he’s not heard a word and he turns his back on the servant. “Now, get out.”

 _No. I won’t let her kill you._ “Listen to me! Sophia isn’t –“

“Don’t you dare speak ill of my love!”

In a way it’s like taking an arrow to the chest. Even if it’s unreal, even if the Prince is under an enchantment and anyway, Merlin is a servant and shouldn’t be bothered – to hear those words breaks something inside of him. This tiny, tiny hope he’d borne that one day, one day Arthur would look at him not as a nobody, not as a servant, but as a dear friend, as ... But it shall never happen, and now Arthur has just confessed his love for Sophia.

“Arthur…”

The Prince’s voice is harsh and unforgiving.

“Get out.”

Merlin doesn’t.

“Arthur …” He’s not sure of what to say, all of a sudden. He could bring up the King’s words, repeat them, run in a loop. But Arthur’s so stubborn and hearing his father’s commands through his servant’s mouth would only anger him more. He could whisper about magic, about the woman’s spell on him; he could mention Lady Morgana’s dream.

_The lake – he was sinking …_

When he doesn’t move, Arthur growls like he would at a knight when failing to parry a blow and Merlin winces at the harshness. “I ordered you to _get out_.”

“Arthur! Listen to me--”

The Prince turns back toward him, finally. Merlin wants to shake him like some misbehaving child and yell, yell at him for being so stupid and blind – can’t he see that Sophia and  her father are taking control? - but he’s rooted to the ground.

Arthur’s eyes are **red**.

_Gods, Arthur, what have they done to you?_

“Look, Arthur, I …” he can’t keep his voice quite steady when Arthur looks at him with those horrible red eyes. “You may think you’re in love with Sophia, but –”

The reaction is immediate. The Prince turns, dropping the pack and he stalks close, in a matter of seconds hovering above the servant. Merlin holds his breath, but refuses to back down. He can’t back down, not ever. “ _You_ ,” Arthur spits, in a voice that is not his own, “have no right to speak of her. You're just a _servant_. Now. Get. Out.”

It hurts more than it should.

“Arthur,” he says, quieter, and raises a hand slowly. “She’s enchanted you. Blinded you. _This_ isn’t the Arthur I know. Please, trust me.”

 _I’m your **friend** ,_ he wants to say, but the roughness of Arthur’s hands on his shoulders startles him, and for a moment, he stares at the Prince’s blank face with fear. This isn’t Arthur, this is some soulless shell and Sophia has trapped away the soul. _Let me find the key, please_ , Merlin prays to whatever deity that might be listening.

“How dare you!”

“I told you that they would try to part us,” says an eerily soft voice behind them and Merlin shivers. No. There’s the rustle of satin and silk, and the woman continues. “Come now, my dear Arthur. Let us leave this place. Just you and I.”

_No – no, don’t listen to her you idiot!_

Arthur drops him and pushes him away, a gloved hand forceful against his chest and Merlin panics; he can’t let him walk away now, side-by-side with Sophia, he can’t –

“Arthur! Don’t listen to her! She’s going to _kill you_!”

The woman turns to him sharply. “You are far too troublesome for a servant,” she says, and the earlier smile on her face is entirely gone, the sweetness replaces by cold resentment. She is so cold and her magic now visible, tendrils of blue close to her skin, dark and dangerous. He can’t let her have Arthur.

The Prince stands there, watching but blind, his face entirely expressionless. Letting her take his hand and walk away.

Merlin lunges forward, but she reacts, raising the staff in her hand, crying an ancient spell. It’s too strong and swift for him to move away from it. Pale light shoots from the staff and hits him in the chest, causing him to tumble back.

He lands harshly, the stone floor hard and unforgiving, and his vision swims. His body aches. The magic from the staff, raw in its simplicity, struggles with his own – he lifts his head a little, struggling to open his mouth to scream a warning. But it’s too late. Arthur’s back is turned. Holding Sophia’s hand. Walking away. Away.

Right before the world darkens Merlin manages to lash out with his magic, a single thought, startling in its clarity but he doesn’t know if Arthur can hear it.

_… Don’t go with her, Arthur! Arthur! **ARTHUR!**_


	19. Part 18: Water [The Gates of Avalon, part two]

**Part 18:**

# Water

**_[The Gates of Avalon, part two]_ **

* * *

_Arthur_ _– Arthur!_

He wakes to a never-ending echo ringing in his ears.

“Merlin! Good heavens, are you all right?”

A pair of familiar, old hands grasps his forearms just as he opens his eyes, everything swimming into view. His body is sore, his head aching. The floor beneath him is cold and hard and uncomfortable against his back.

Gaius is there, hovering over him with a worried expression on his face. “You’ve taken a blow to the head and probably bruised your back quite heavily – thank god there is no blood,” the physician says, helping him to sit but obviously reluctant about having him walking about, because when Merlin tries hauling himself to his feet the old man sternly holds him back down. “Merlin, you’re injured, you shouldn’t—”

“Arthur,” he gasps, “Sophia’s got Arthur – she’s enchanted him! She’s going to kill him!  I must stop her!”

His head spins for a moment but with a push of wordless magic, he manages to rise, ignoring his mentor’s protests. He understands why he’s worried but it doesn’t matter now – Arthur’s in danger. And Merlin is the only one who can stop Sophia; she’s got magic and no Knight’s sword could better that.

“I’ve got to find them, Gaius,” he says desperately and his mentor sighs, but nods.

“Just be careful, Merlin.”

* * *

_Arthur – just hold on, wait for me, I’m hurrying…!_

His feet thunders across the ground. He has no maps guiding him, no voices, just the magic raw in his hands and there – there! Like a golden thread, spiraling in-between the trees, there is the trace of sorcery and Arthur, _Arthur_ –

* * *

The old man is standing by the edge of the water, chanting, his back turned. The girl stand knee-deep into the lake, hand outstretched. Merlin has no plans formulated in his mind, he just throws his magic at them – he spots the staff abandoned near the old man’s feet then. He has no idea how to use it and it doesn’t matter. He channels his magic, raw and uninhibited, through it.

The old man – who is no man at all – turns around right before the blue pulse hits him, turning him into fragments.

The girl screams right before she shatters.

Merlin drops the staff with a thud.

“Arthur!”

He can’t see Arthur.

Without hesitation he dives into the muddy water. Each second lasts for an hour. His vision is blurry, he can’t see – oh gods, Arthur, Arthur, he can’t see him! – and he fumbles, stretching out his hands for something, anything to grasp. Momentarily he loses his footing on the rocky bottom of the lake, and slips further down, into the dark.

There.

A glimmer.

Armour?

Merlin reaches out, pushing his magic outward and – there! His hand finds something cold. Curls around it, grasping tight. Then, in a final effort, he tugs upward, his lungs burning for air.

He breaks the surface with a gasp. His fists, already cold and hurting under the strain, haven’t let go. His limbs won’t cooperate properly, his heartbeat furiously propelled by his fear – as his vision starts to clear and he realizes that he’s really holding onto Arthur. Reality. Comprehensible. He slips an arm around the man to not lose him.

The shore seems to be miles away.

“Oh god, breathe, breathe, _please_ ,” Merlin rasps as he struggles with the Prince’s heavy weight.  The armour almost pulls them back under the surface and the warlock’s eyes glow golden for a moment, then the fastenings on the leg and armguards loosen and they sink back into the depth – now it doesn’t matter that the pieces of metal are lost, they’re replaceable, unlike Arthur - and with some of the weight gone he manages to drag the man ashore, chest heaving as his lungs scream for oxygen.

Arthur still hasn’t opened his eyes.

“Oh god, oh god, please don’t be dead. You stupid idiot dollophead, _don’t you dare_ die on me now!”

Merlin curses vehemently as he with freezing, trembling fingers struggles to find the Prince’s pulse against his neck; he can’t control his hands, they’re shaking and words roll uselessly off his tongue, panicked and helpless. And his magic coils, like a storm reaching out trying to find Arthur and wake him, but the man doesn’t respond.

“Oh please, please be alive, oh, you cabbage head you can’t die now, we’ve not fulfilled out destiny yet, we’re not there yet and I can’t lose you and you _can’t_ –“

After a painful long wait, he finds it, weak but regular underneath the skin.

What should he _do_? Merlin is no physician, he has no idea what do to a person that’s nearly drowned. He can just go on instinct. He’s running on overdrive on adrenaline and his heart beats so fast against his ribcage, it’s _painful_ , and the silence of the woods is deafening. He pushes the man over on his side and hits his back firmly, trying to expel the water from inside him.

Abruptly Arthur’s whole body spasms with a cough, followed by another and another, as water is forced from his lungs and he starts retching, shaking violently. Merlin’s holding onto his shoulders and, not even aware of what he’s doing, he sends of waves of magic through his fingertips trying to soothe the man.

“Arthur!”

The chainmail is icy beneath his palms, but it doesn’t matter. “I’ve got you, it’s all right. I’ve got you.”

The Prince’s eyes flicker, almost opening and Merlin leans into the man’s field of vision, over his shoulder, holding the man supporting him against his chest. The man’s weight presses tightly against him and right now he can’t bring himself to care about hiding any secrets. “Arthur? Can you hear me? Arthur?”

“…’rlin?” the man rasps. The eyes open fully, not quite steady.

Relief floods through him like a tidal wave.

“Yes, it’s me, it’s me – it’s all right, _you’re_ all right.”

He might be saying it just in a pathetic attempt to calm himself down, but it doesn’t matter, because Arthur’s eyes find some focus. “It’s all right,” Merlin repeats, gently, stroking some matted hair back from the Prince’s forehead.

Merlin is grabbed by a strong urge to lean down those few inches and press his lips to Arthur and taste them, taste them and feel that Arthur’s truly _alive_ , to make sure – _he has to make sure_ \- everything is a blur except for Arthur’s weight pressing against him and the blue eyes staring up at him.

They are clear now: startlingly so, and their real true colour, not that chilling red tone. They’re free of the sidhe’s enchantment and staring up at him brightly and, then, Arthur’s face moves closer to his.

Suddenly they’re kissing – it’s brief and surreal and Merlin can’t breathe, can’t think. Arthur tastes of strength and hope and safety, his lips slightly charred against his own, there’s a hand resting against his thigh, heavy and warm and the fingers are slightly curled. Arthur’s wet tongue presses against him – _Is he aware? Is he really awake or having some vivid dream?_ – and Merlin parts his lips and their teeth clash painfully and, oh, oh god, _Arthur’s kissing him –_

“Merlin,” Arthur sighs quietly, before unconsciousness claims him again, eyes rolling back in their sockets, and he falls limp in the warlock’s arms.

Dazed, Merlin if Arthur’s not really alive and it’s just an illusion, some kind of dream and if it is then he might not be alive either.

* * *

It’s Gaius that finds them, nearly an hour later, by the shore.

Merlin hasn’t the strength to move Arthur and even if he did, he can’t exactly carry an unconscious Prince back to the city without creating chaos. So he sits here by the man’s side, staring at his face and wondering – and fearing – what Arthur will remember, what he’ll do when he wakes. Like in a trance, he doesn’t move when Gaius nears or speaks, barely reacting at the old man’s presence.

“I have alerted sir Leon and he will be on his way momentarily,” the physician says and kneels beside him. “I said I feared that the Prince would attempt to elope with Sophia but wasn’t right in his mind, and sir Leon was willing to help. The King is unaware as of yet. Albeit I believe he must be told. Merlin. Merlin? Are you all right?”

The old man lays a hand on his shoulder and shakes it gently and Merlin wavers slightly like losing balance. Then finally he lifts his head. He’s not really listened to what Gaius has said.

“I’m, I’m fine. I just. He nearly … nearly – I thought I was too late. I thought I was too late. I - oh god.” Like a damn bursting the words spill over his tongue, a flood of emotion; “He’s not woken up yet. Is he going to be all right? Will he be all right? Gaius?!”

“I know, I understand,” Gaius says very gently even if he _doesn’t_. “He’ll recover; I’ll make sure of it.” The man opens his medical bag and for some reason there’s one of Merlin’s red shirts resting perfectly folded on top of the equipment. “You should change into this, Merlin.”

“What? Why?”

He stares at the man in confusion.

“Your clothes are still damp; it’s not good for your health. And we don’t want anyone to get suspicious about your secret. I am glad I had such foresight.”

Abruptly understanding what the old man means, Merlin scrambles to wrap his arms protectively around himself. Although knowing about his gender, Gaius has never _seen_ him, and the tunic is plastered to his body giving no cover. The old man had always given him privacy.

“R-right,” he mutters unsteadily and takes the tunic, turning away to change, facing the water – the surface is now tranquil, an illusion giving no hint to the dangers beneath. The warlock’s hands are a bit unsteady when starting to undo the fastenings, and not for the same reason as they were an hour ago.

The memory is so sharply etched to his memory: he can still feel it, the tug of the water and the icy armour pressing against his hands relentlessly – and, countering it, Arthur’s warmth and Arthur’s mouth and Arthur’s heartbeat.

Gaius is already occupied with examining the unconscious Prince, tugging the man’s armour off him. “He’s starting to grow cold, that’s not good,” he states. “The metal so close to his skin, after being so long in the water … I should have brought a blanket. I hope sir Leon has enough sense to do so.”

“He knows then, about the sidhe?” Merlin asks, surprised, rolling up the wet cloth and putting it his mentor’s bag. He’d expected the King to know then because the knight is very loyal to Uther, as well as to Arthur, and if the King had known there’d have been a complete uproar.

“He has not been told, no. But he is not a stupid man and noticed Arthur has been acting strange as of late, so I believe he’ll be able to piece the picture together rather quickly. Thus, we must let the King know of it all before he finds out bits and pieces from anyone else and comes to believe any falsities or rumours. Excluding the details of your interventions, of course,” Gaius adds. “Now, help an old man to get this off. You comprehend armour better than I do.”

It’s not that difficult, and beneath the layer of metal the Prince’s clothes are damp. “He needs to get warm and into dry clothes.”

“I could magic them dry,” Merlin suggests carefully but his mentor sends him a look, eyebrows lowered in displeasure.

“Not in the open like this, that’s too dangerous. Sir Leon could arrive at any moment!”

“But Gaius, you said it yourself; it’s dangerous for him to be cold. What if he …?”

He chokes on the word – no! he can’t let it happen, can’t think of it.

With a sigh, the old man gives in, and if there’s berating to face later Merlin is more than willing to endure it. “Be quick about it then.”

The warlock makes up the spell on the top of his head, not for the first time; thankfully it works as he wants it to. Immediately the water is forced from the Prince’s every garment, also the boots, and forms a small pool by his side that glitters in the sunlight. Then Merlin helps Gaius move him a bit further up the shore, away from the evidence of magic, and they lay him back down again resting his head gently on the grass.

“Merlin, where are the sidhes’ staffs?”

The warlock points across the clearing, where the items by chance have landed out of sight. “By that crooked tree there, in the high grass. Should I go get them?”

“No,” the old man shakes his head. “Not yet. You may come back for them later. Just keep quiet about them for now, and let’s hope no one notices them.”

Merlin nods in understanding. If the staffs were to be found by, say, a knight, and taken back to Camelot, they would immediately be destroyed or put in the vaults, locked away from all inquisitive eyes. He’s got a hunch Gaius would like to examine the staffs and perhaps the warlock might even find some use of them in the future. Either way, it’s best if they’re kept hidden.

“Admittedly I’m curious, but your tale on how you defeated the sidhe must wait until another time,” Gaius says. “Listen.” Both of then tunes their ears to the surrounding woods, and true enough: “Hoof-beats.”

* * *

It’s one of the knights; the warlock recognizes him as being one of the oldest and most experienced ones, whom Arthur has always favoured. The Prince had often discusses battle tactics with him and dueled with him on the training field.

Sir Leon’s red cape whips about him as he dismounts, rushing up to them. “By the gods!” he cries out when seeing the unconscious Prince, clearly fearing the worst. As if having a sixth sense of them being needed, the knight has had two woolen blankets attached to his saddlebags and Merlin quickly goes to get them.

The knight doesn’t spare him a second glance, entirely focused on the Prince and the physician. “Is he all right?”

This mustn’t be the scene the knight had expected to come upon after hearing the Prince had snuck off to elope with some girl.

“He took a bump to the head,” Gaius says, and Merlin senses the old man must’ve fabricated this lie long before sir Leon’s arrival at the scene. “Apparently, Sophia’s father found them as they were to elope and tried to drown the Prince, after which he must’ve taken his daughter and fled. We’ve seen no sign of them.”

“ _Drown him_?” sir Leon exclaims aghast. “The King must be told immediately. We must have a patrol search for them –“

“It would do no good, I’m afraid, not now. From my nephew’s account I fear both were magic users. He saw the woman leave with the Prince and, sensing something wasn’t right, followed them. I am glad, since he managed to pull Arthur ashore in time.”

The knight’s eyes are momentarily drawn to Merlin, who’s covering the Prince with a blanket and tucking in the edges to keep him warm.

“The King will be eternally grateful,” the man says sincerely, though there’s an odd expression on his face. Maybe it’s disbelief. After all, Merlin is just a mere servant, a commoner, and now he’s saved the Prince yet another time, despite nearly impossible odds – facing and overcoming harmful magical deeds. Sir Leon does not know the boy, but he’s heard talk among the castle staff, loose rumour here and there; the boy truly is a wonder. “Again, it seems.”

“Oh, it – it was nothing, really, I’d have done it for anyone,” Merlin mutters, ears going red and he busies himself with fiddling with Arthur’s blanket. “I just couldn’t have left him, could I?”

The words are like false echoes; they mirror nothing of what Merlin feels, mirror nothing of the tempest raging in his heart, nothing of the fear that’d leapt to his throat making it difficult to breathe when Arthur had almost slipped from his grasp and sunk back down into the murky water where he’d be out of reach.

“No, you couldn’t,” Gaius agrees, unaware of his ward’s inner turmoil. Or perhaps he is, but cannot speak of it either way. “Sir Leon, perhaps you could help us to get Prince Arthur into the saddle. I would assume it’s the easiest way to get him back to Camelot.”

“Of course.”

Arthur is no small man, but Leon isn’t either and his arms are strong; and with Merlin supporting the Prince on the other side they manage to get him up and into the saddle, even if some adjustments are needed. They fasten his feet in the stirrups, so that he won’t fall down, and Merlin checks to make sure the blanket is secure as well around the Prince’s shoulders before Leon takes the reins, starting to lead the horse back onto the path.

“ _How_ exactly do we explain this to the King?” Merlin quietly asks Gaius, glancing at his mentor. “And the guards? I think people are going to be upset when seeing Arthur like this.”

“With the truth, albeit carefully. There is no other choice. We must reveal that the Sidhe were responsible for this … though the King will not take it very well. Now, keep an eye on the Prince, Merlin, and make sure he doesn’t fall off. We do not need him to hit his head again.”

* * *

As predicted, the guards are staring at them as they enter the city, but they aren’t hindered, thanks to sir Leon’s presence. Word spreads like wildfire through the lower town and onwards, so by the time they enter the courtyard, the castle guard, the majority of the servants and most importantly the King have already been alerted of the situation.

Uther is ashen-faced but his voice doesn’t waver and he hides his worry behind a façade of ire. “What happened?” he demands to know, not taking his eyes off his unconscious son.

“I’m afraid I do not know all details, sire,” sir Leon says and bows respectfully. “I believe Gaius can tell you all. Please, the Prince needs to get inside.”

“He will recover, sire, of that I am sure,” Gaius fills in to calm Uther some. Merlin is glad that the King has taken no notice of him, an insignificant servant boy, yet. “He needs to be taken inside, to his chambers; he needs to rest.”

“Of course. I shall come with you.” The King stiffly gestures for his servants and bodyguards to follow, and now with so many men around willing to help lift the Prince inside Merlin finds himself standing empty-handed and restless on the lowest step leading into the citadel.

Thankfully Gaius sees this and calls for him. “Come with me, Merlin, I can use your aid.”

* * *

The trip to the Prince’s chamber is hushed and each passer-by stares openly, murmuring behind the back of their hands.

Merlin keeps on walking still not quite sure if he’s dreaming or not. His feet guide him the right way without him having to think of it, he’s taken this path too many times before to count. But it’s strange to follow such a large entourage and he barely catches a glimpse of Arthur between the knights and Gaius and the King, who still haven’t spoken much, and his stomach is tying knots on itself.

Arthur had woken briefly before, yes, but what if there are complications? What if he’s really been in the water for too long? What if he’s injured in some other way they don’t know of? _What if …?_

The familiar doors open and the chambers are swarmed with more people than Merlin has ever before seen in it. They settle Arthur on the bed, the King hovering by the bedside and Gaius busies himself with checking the Prince’s pulse and breathing. The knights stand back, uncertain of what to do next.

“Leave,” the King dismisses them distractedly. “Go back to your duties.”

As the men bow deeply and backs out of the room, ever sending worried glances toward the limp figure upon the bed, Merlin lingers in the background waiting for some command or sign or anything. The King’s presence is somewhat unnerving.

“Will he recover, Gaius?” Uther asks, voice low.

“Yes. I believe he will wake soon. He needs to be kept warm though. Merlin, find another blanket.”

There’s a fur-lined one in the cupboard next to the door that the Prince hasn’t used yet while Merlin’s been in Camelot; it’s sitting there ready to be taken out at the first sign of snow. Merlin digs it out from the back and then drapes it over the Prince’s shoulders - they’re warm now, broad and steady and Merlin remembers them pressing against him, as Arthur’s body was next to his own and abruptly, a hot blush spreads across his neck and cheeks. Hastily he steps away hoping neither King or physician has noticed the reaction.

Uther stares at the slumped form on the bed, face old and weary with concern. For a moment he doesn’t look like a cold-hearted, ruthless King: no, he’s just a man who’s worried for his son and he looks even older than usual, worn and tired by many long years, and Merlin feels a twinge of pity for him.

“Come to me immediately if there’s any change,” Uther orders at length, sounding collected and focused and kingly, though his eyes flicker. “I must inform the council.”

“Of course, sire,” Gaius says, voice assuring. “I shall let you know the moment he wakes up.”


	20. Part 19: Air [The Gates of Avalon, part three]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _It's been a while...a long while ... since last I wrote any to this story. Sorry about that. I've decided to try come back to it, hopefully finish it. I've added more tags and warnings to it, and restructured a little: before, the first chapter included both the prologue and the first part: now I've split those. I've also added titles to each part, for easier navigation. Lastly, I'm going to go back and check everything for grammatical errors, continuity errors and so on, which is going to take some time._

**Part 19:**

# Air

**_[The Gates of Avalon, part three]_ **

* * *

“Arthur?”

The voice is soft and hushed, a little soothing, but cannot stop the onslaught against his forehead and eyes as he blinks against the bright light. Sunlight. Falling sharp and white through the windows and onto the bed. Arthur groans, shifting to bury his face in the pillows.

“Ugh … my _head_.”

He doesn’t have energy enough to elaborate, but it is hardly necessary anyway.

Blinking blearily, the Prince lifts his head. His manservant is seated on a chair pulled up next to the bed, hands resting on his knees restlessly as if desiring to fidget with something but remaining there as if for propriety’s sake (well, that would be a first!). His neckerchief is slightly askew. There’s a shadow of concern on his face, visible even if the boy might be trying to (poorly) hide it behind a façade of indifference.

Gaius is sitting next to the servant, much more calm and collected. “How are you feeling, sire?” the old man asks gently.

“Like someone’s tried to split open my head. What happened?”

 _The sidhe didn’t quite do that,_ Merlin has a sudden urge to say then, wanting to stand up abruptly and yell: _You nearly just **drowned** , you bigheaded idiot! If it weren’t for me they’d have been preparing your bloody funeral right now, you prat!_

But the warlock doesn’t say this or any other sudden heated insults and worries resting on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he asks, softly; “What do you remember, sire?”

The Prince shuts his eyes tightly against the sharp light and taking pity on him the physician pulls the nearest bed curtain some to shield him from the worst.

“There was … There was this girl. Sophia? Yes, that’s her name. She. And her father. They came to court. An accident during hunting…? Yes, that’s it. I asked … something important. I asked father –“

Abruptly, the man sits up, eyes wide and filled with horror and a strangled cry escapes his throat. “By god, I _didn’t_!”

“I’m afraid so, sire,” Gaius murmurs.

“But – but. I’d only just. I. What?” Arthur looks confused, and furious. With himself, probably; but there’s something else as well beneath the surface that Merlin can’t tell what it is exactly and now there’s no time to reflect on it. “By the gods!” the man exclaims again, face ashen.

“You ran off to … to elope with Sophia. The King was … rather upset,” Merlin informs him, words that the warlock has practiced in his mind for the last half hour, over and over until they stuck onto his tongue. They roll of his tongue like oil, leaving a bitter aftertaste. But Arthur needs to be told and he’s not certain how much of the truth them and should hear, yet, so he begins hesitantly to speak. “You two were in the forest when, um, her father appeared and – there was a fight between you, he succeeded in stopping you and then he took Sophia and left.”

Immediately the Prince is suspicious, glaring down at the servant: “How in the heavens’ name could that old man have beaten _me_ in a fight?”

To Merlin’s surprise, Gaius steps in then and instead of coming with a lie or other explanation, the old man offer the truth: or at least _part_ of the truth. Merlin’s glad to hear him say it though, even if it’s not the _whole_ true story. He hates having to lie and he knows how terrible it is spreading them, and how terrible it is to find out that you’ve been lied to. It’s better for Arthur to know now, not later.

“He was no ordinary man, sire; he possessed magic.”

“A _sorcerer_?” Arthur cries, aghast and furious. “He put a spell on me?!”

Unconsciously Merlin’s hands curl around the hem of his tunic, knuckles growing white, at hearing the Prince’s voice laced with venom – he spits the words so fiercely, with _hate_. Then, the warlock abruptly realizes his reaction and takes a deep breath. It won’t do to get upset, not now, not now.

“They’d put you under some kind enchantment, that’s why you asked to – to marry her,” says Merlin. The speech is slow and rather calm, but his heart is racing; Arthur’s looking straight at him, no hesitation, and he wishes the Prince wasn’t so _focused_ on him.

“And as soon as you complied, they took you to a lake nearby. I’m not sure _why,_ but they tried … tried to drown you.” Here, the servant’s face darkens, eyes flashing with mist. “They left you in the lake. I found you sinking … I got there just in time to pull you up and then Gaius and sir Leon came and helped.”

Arthur’s face goes white like snow. He remembers nothing of this: no fighting, no man, just Sophia and her false sweet face that was going blurry at the edges and her distant, enchanting voice, and – and _another_ voice, pleading and far-away right before he woke up, like taken from a dream he cannot quite grasp.

Startled at this realization, he whips his head around to look at his manservant, who is pale as well and stares back, the boy failing to fade his nervousness - or was it worry? Was it something else entirely?

And after the voice, fading into the echoing dark, he remembers hands – secure hands, safe hands - and light rushing down upon him, and then, then…

He looks away from the servant, gut twisting. It must have been a dream.

“You should lie down, sire,” Gaius advices, unaware of the Prince’s inner turmoil.

Arthur reluctantly complies, ignoring the pounding ache behind his temple, body all tense of a sudden. “I didn’t—did I?”

“No, you never managed to complete your intentions with Sophia,” the physician fills in smoothly, calming the Prince somewhat. “Luckily, my ward found you and pulled you of the water before any permanent damage had been done – don’t worry, sire, the headache will pass. Sir Leon and I helped him to bring you back to Camelot.” There is no mention of enchantments or magic staffs or red glowing eyes; no mentions of ancient words being poured over the lake as the sacrifice took place. “Sophia and her father fled before they could get caught. The King has sent out search patrols for them.”

Thinking about it, it does make sense: not just the fact Arthur barely recalls the girl and her father, but also why he’s woken up in his chambers with such a dreadful headache while the last clear _actual_ memory he has is of standing in the great hall speaking with his father about the bandits roaming the border.

“Thank god. Wait – _Merlin_? _You_ pulled me out of the lake, on your own? But, but,” Arthur splutters, “you haven’t got any kind of muscle on those thin arms!”

“I’m stronger than I look!” the servant protests, more like an instinctive reaction than anything else, because his voice is still a little weak and gaze distant and his hands slightly curled up on themselves. Arthur’s trained eyes can pick all of these signs up in the brief moment it takes for Merlin to speak, and the Prince frowns slightly.

What is the boy hiding?

“I need to inform your father that you are awake,” Gaius says and stands, moving toward the door. “I assume he’ll come to see you shortly, sire. Please stay abed for the rest of the day; it would soothe my mind greatly.” Since he is the court physician, such a request is an order and Arthur sinks into the pillows with a sigh. Then the door closes behind the man, leaving warlock and Prince alone.

Arthur observes the servant out of the corner of his eye. “You saved my life,” he muses aloud. “ _Again_. You’re unbelievable, aren’t you, Merlin? Truly, a wonder. I’d never thought you had it in you.”

The servant is on his feet within the same moment the words leave the Prince’s mouth.

“You’re damn lucky, you know,” Merlin says with sudden with heat tracing his voice. The Prince hasn’t heard him speak in this manner before. It’s startling; Arthur doesn’t know how to respond. Merlin’s never been this … _upset_.

He’s been angry at him before, sure, like with the incident with Valiant’s shield, and exasperated at his ‘acting like a dollophead’. The boy has complained and sulked and insulted him countless times. But nothing before like this – not this angrily _upset_. Like there’s something more to it, not just that the boy thinks him to be a selfish, careless idiot (which he is _not_ ). There’s another pain there which Arthur doesn’t like. He doesn’t want to hear, doesn’t want to see the servant in pain.

But then the words take a more familiar path, and the Prince can’t help but smile. “I could’ve decided it’d be good riddance, since you’re such a cabbage head, but still I dived in and pulled you up. And I don’t even get a proper _thank you_ for the mess you put me through!”

Arthur simply rolls his eyes. “Oh, you idiot. Go and fetch me some medicine to soothe this horrible headache, there must be something in Gaius’ stores.”

The boy sighs audibly before he turns. “… Yes, sire.”

* * *

Arthur doesn’t remember the kiss.

He doesn’t remember.

Maybe he should be glad. Relieved. Merlin knows it’s probably _safer_ if Arthur doesn’t remember, safer for them both; if he’d remembered there’d be questions, dangerous questions and more uncertainties, what to do, because the kiss must’ve meant something for Arthur as well, even in the haze. Uncertainties that would break the brittle friendship – barrier? bond? Whatever name it has - between them.

But. It _hurts_. The emotion is something he never could’ve prepared himself for. Just thinking about it makes his chest clench and his eyes grow wet. It’d been his first real kiss and Arthur doesn’t even –

But even _if_ he’d remembered, it’d never have led anywhere; it’d never have worked out. Arthur is the Prince of Camelot; Merlin is a mere servant with far too many secrets, dangerous secrets that could get him killed. It’d never have worked out. He tells himself this as he presses himself to the cool stone wall, trying to breathe calmly again and stop this relentless bitter pain rising in his throat.

It is better that Arthur can’t remember the kiss or the enchantment or _anything_ of what’s happened recently. It is better that he doesn’t know. It is better.

It is …

Why does it have to hurt so much? It was just a kiss … just a kiss. It was short and meaningless and fleeting and …

 _And it’s all lies -_ _it’s all lies and you know it._

By the time he’s found the bottle of medicine requested in the physician’s storage and made his way back to the Prince’s chambers, Gaius has returned with the King, who is now sitting on Arthur’s bedside, and the room is filled with concerned voices and no one pays him any mind. He leaves the bottle on the desk without a word.

* * *

It was just a dream.

Nothing to linger on. Certainly nothing for a _Prince_ to longer on. He has more important things to care for, other duties and priorities. It could just have been a remembrance of a drunken night, an escape from some feast long ago – a memory confusedly jumbled up so that it’s not reality anymore. Arthur has had affairs before and he has certainly kissed before.

Oh, gods, _the kiss._

_(the body aligned against his back and the familiar warm hands pressed against his sides and his confusion, emotions all jumped up, all definitions blurred and the warm lips and the illusions)_

It’s so faint; he can barely reach out for it. He knows he should push it away. It wasn’t real. But he can’t stop himself from trying to grasp it, again and again. Define it. Clear the muddled colours away. His eyes had been dimmed then, by pain and confusion, but the presence holding him had been firm and warm, a steady comfort, a nearby pulsing heartbeat.

A dream. A dream. A dream.


End file.
